Touch the Mind
by TheGreatAthlon5
Summary: One courageous boy from District 10. One solitary boom. One bad leg. That is all that Katniss knows. Yet he has dumped kindling onto the rebellion that she sparked when she threatened the Capitol with nightlock berries. This is the story of that kindling. (Not compliant to film, Katniss/Pita minor characters), lots of spoilers for The Hunger Games. Don't forget to review.
1. Chapter 1

1

Trilla's insistent call wakes me up, and I haul myself off the hay to attend to her. I know it's Trilla because, as the name suggests, her lowing exhibits a noticeable quaver. I dump a good portion of the hormone-laced feed into the manger and look on as she begins to munch away, snuffling with contentment. If only she knew.

If only I knew, for that matter. Our cattle are raised for quick reproduction, which means that the provided food is loaded with reproduction accelerators and growth hormones. In the bygone days, cattle ate grass, but we know better now. The capitol-supplied feed is far superior to any grass, no matter how green or tall. But sometimes I wonder what's inside those evidently tasty morsels. The packages don't have ingredients lists. One time I asked the mayor, and he threatened to call the peacekeepers if I asked again, so I never did.

Just the thought of the peacekeepers makes me shudder. I'm no slouch when it comes to muscles, due to my strenuous daily routine raising the cattle, but these guys make me feel like a small dwarf in comparison. All of them carry powerful assault rifles with enough power to stop a charging bull. They realized from experience that they needed such strong weaponry. I won't get into the details.

I realize that Trilla's trough is empty. I grab the nearby pail and head for the faucet, fed by the irrigation trench that winds it way all the way to the faraway mountain springs. I really have to thank district 4 for building the water treatment plant that ensures that our running water is free of diseases and other contamination. The people in the Smellchain have it far worse.

The Smellchain is not a very endearing name for that half of district 10, but there's nothing endearing there at all, so the name fits well. I've been there exactly five times in my life, and today will be the last. The most prominent buildings there are the three slaughterhouse buildings, near the eastern edge of the district. The smell from the slaughterhouses is so pervasive that I sometimes catch a whiff of it while I'm outside with the cows, five or six miles away. Sadly, I've lived here for eighteen years, so I've mostly gotten used to it. Visitors to the district often take a moment to wrinkle their noses or gag, much to the amusement of onlookers, when they first catch the scent. It's funny, in a really disgusting way.

As I bid Trilla goodbye and head to the ranch house for breakfast, I hear my father yelling at me. "Hey Dal! I thought I told you to stop naming your cows," he barks, clearly annoyed. He's been telling me to stop naming the cows for years, yet they're the only friends I have here. That's why I love exercising them so much.

"Sure," I respond. He looks at me skeptically, but doesn't say anything, waving me into the warm kitchen, where my mother is just finishing up the food preparations.

"Remember Dal," she calls over her shoulder, wielding a spoon with unusual enthusiasm, "today is reaping day. May the odds be ever in your favor!"

I'm not sure if she wants me to be reaped or not, honestly. She's always bragged to others about my muscles and impressive skills with animals, so a part of me wonders if she wants me to get reaped because she believes I have a really good chance of winning. I've often heard her and my father arguing heatedly about money, when they thought I couldn't hear them. It is a real concern, of course, because I think I'd rather die in the games than work in a Smellchain slaughterhouse. Just the thought of the slaughterhouse makes the food taste worse, so I hastily finish up and put on my reaping clothes. They're really scratchy and I hate wearing them, but they look high-quality, and that is the important thing.

I open up the barn door, releasing the dozen cows inside. I start shouting to herd them into an amorphous blob, and as they come obediently to my side, I lead them around to get them warmed up. For the next few hours, I exercise the cattle like Dad taught me when I was a child. It's been a bit harder since I injured my leg, but I've mostly gotten used to it, and I only have a slight limp when moving. The cows enjoy this very much; I hear them mooing and my mind is receptive to their happy emotions. My mother often brags to others about my instinctual knowledge of animal feelings. I've demonstrated it several times, to the general amazement of others, but really, I don't know why people make such a big deal out of it. You just have to work with the cattle enough, and not distract yourself with other thoughts, and their minds will touch yours. And then it is just a matter of letting your mind touch theirs. How can that be so hard to do?

As I jog around the small exercise ground allocated to my family, I hear the unmistakable thrum of the fog horn calling us to the Smellchain common ground. I nod at the cattle, while encouraging them to head back to the barn, and they agree with me. I quickly shut them inside the barn, then make the half-hour journey to the square on foot with a few peers from neighboring ranches. We have set outearly enough that the roads are not yet congested, so we make good time. From bitter experience, I know that being late to a reaping is a painful mistake to make; the peacekeepers are quite skilled with the bullhide whips.

I arrive at the square, hearing the increasingly-loud clamour of voices from the direction I came. The justice building stands in a prominent position, the capital seal highlighted starkly against the drab gray background of the other nearby buildings. The district escort, a capitol-born man named Jewel Thaddeus, stands proudly upon a wheeled podium, grinning at the audience while showing off his balance by rolling the podium in circles around the justice building unassisted. He's done that every year since I can remember and doesn't seem to realize that people are no longer impressed. A few of the younger kids beg their parents to lift them up above the growing crowd so they can see him better. Their innocence will go away in a few years, I think synically to myself.

I approach a table, signing my name and heading to the section for the eighteen-year-olds. I try and cram in with some friends from the Ranch, but to no avail. I finally sidle over to the kids from the Smellchain, wrinkling my nose in disgust and turning away. Even a person who was completely ignorant about District 10's wealth gap issues can tell that I shouldn't be with them. Their best clothes are the ones that have the fewest patches, the ones that look the least ugly. Mine are the ones that actually look nice. And they appear far leaner than me; working long hours at a slaughterhouse with ten-minute breaks for lunch and dinner will do that to a person. I shudder inwardly, glad I'm not one of them.

Finally the old clock strikes a single, solitary BONG that crashes thunderously above the din of food vendors, haggling, gambling and bickering. Yes, the people who have money to spare actually gamble on who will be being sent to their almost-certain deaths. Twelve to one that it's a thirteen-year-old boy; fifty to one that there will be a tribute volunteer. It's revolting, and yet there's nothing that I can do to stop it. Jewel Thaddeus's voice, amplified by an electric microphone, booms out grandeously, "Welcome to the District 10 reaping of the 74th hunger games! May the odds be ever in your favor!"

Without further preamble, he wheels the podium to the bowl with the female names, and quickly grabs one. It's a small mercy that he doesn't drag out the reapings in an attempt to increase the drama. He's an expedient, efficient kind of man, always eager to move on to the next event on the agenda. His voice yells out jubilantly, "Jill Pailar!"

Nothing happens for a second or two. Then I see a girl detach herself from a gaggle of Smellchain friends and totter up to the podium, her face white with shock. I already know she is dead meat when the games begin. Her underfed frame, her wobbling legs, the way she's barely breathing, they all portend doom. She's already falling apart and this is just the reaping. Thaddeus then draws a name from the boys' bowl, and I can swear he grins evilly at me before reading off, "Dallas Mooer!"

I take a step forward. 


	2. Chapter 2

I must have heard wrong, I think. He didn't say that name. He couldn't have. But I continued to walk toward the podium. Toward my doom. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Jill Pailor staring resentfully at my opulent clothes as if she's blaming me and my wealth for the bleak end to her life that will inevitably happen. I stare resolutely ahead at Jewel as he shouts happily and the watching spectators applaud me as if they can't wait to see me led away. Evidently they are eager to get back to their cattle ranching and slaughtering.

As the applause dies down, the mayor marches forward to read the post-reaping speech. Having heard it five other times, it's old news to me. We should consider it an honor to participate in the Hunger Games and that honor will increase if we win, as if I have any chance. The Capitol, by only killing twenty-four children per year, is showing mercy to the districts, whose rebellion led to the deaths of thousands of innocent Capitol citizens. Or something like that; I've stopped listening. Mentally I take a trip down my memory lane, because I may never get a chance again.

 _I'd always been good with the cows. Maybe that was because all we ever had were the cows and bulls. My family had not been wealthy enough to afford an oxen team; oxen were rare and expensive, and were very hard to breed. So much of the prairie, which contained the tall grasses that foxes needed for sustenance, had been destroyed in that huge natural disaster that ravaged the entire world and left the Capitol and the districts as the only pillars of civilization standing. That's what we learned at school._

 _My family consisted of me, my older brother Proddo, and my parents, Hefra and Garbull. Proddo, a heavily muscled man like me, was sixteen when, while rounding up the vicious black and gray bulls that Garbull had bought, suddenly lost control and was knocked to the ground. Eager to get back to the barnyard where the food was, they trampled over him, and two thousand pounds of food-crazed, charging bull times half a dozen, was such a great show of force that Proddo was utterly unrecognizable when we found him._

 _Of course we called in the peacekeepers. I had just stepped outside the house to check on the status of the small hidden garden that my mother tended daily when I heard the stampede rumbling toward me. Half a dozen out-of-control bulls are no trivial matter. A dozen of heavily armed peacekeepers arrived on the scene, but not before the stampede leader charged into my left side as I watched them from the house. The collision was relatively minor, and the bull continued past me as I lay sprawled in the dirt, my left leg in excruciating pain. I blacked out for ten hours._

 _I remember waking up in the hospital facility. My leg was in a cast; I'd seen other people with similar injured limbs in casts before, and I realized just how major the damage had been. I was lucky that it was only a glancing blow. The doctor told me that I would have to stay in the hospital for a week before I would be fully recovered, and even then, I would always have a fairly heavy limp when walking around so I would never run as fast as I used to. I simply nodded, and he left. Then my parents came in. My father's face was sad but hopeful; my mother's smoldered with anger as though she was a human doppelganger of one of those angry bulls. I wished I could have gone invisible; I knew that she was going to shout a tirade at me. I mentally braced myself, but my father spoke first and I had to endure the growing tension of my mother's disapproving gaze as he says, in a detached, clinical voice, as if he's reading a report:_

 _"Your brother Proddo is dead. He completely lost control of those bulls and they ran him over, before stampeding past the house and hitting you, before dying to the peacekeepers. They managed to kill four of the peacekeepers and now all peacekeepers will be armed with assault rifles at all times. The eight survivors had assault rifles. Your mother and I had to use almost all the family's savings on this hospital visit. Count yourself lucky that we are not moving to the smellchain; at least we get to keep the house."_

 _Garbull stepped away from me; his eyes were dry and staring vacantly into space now that he was done looking at me. He was obviously trying to keep it together for me, because he knew that if he let the emotions take hold of him, he'd crumble. Hefra rushed forward to take his place. The accident has obviously had the opposite effect on her; her eyes bore into me as if it were my fault as she vented her incoherent, pent-up rage._

 _"Dallas what were you thinking standing there you heard the bulls right! Your leg's completely busted now and I had to sell off my diamond heirloom bracelet to that idiot Mister Dalton to pay half of the emergency room fees! That heirloom's been in my family since before the dark days and now it's GONE! And my son Proddo! Where is he now? Where, is, he! You told those bulls to kill him I know you did! his room still has the ophiataurus picture on his wall because that was his favorite mythological animal, and now he'll never get the chance to see one because you've killed him. I honestly don't know why I'm letting you live now and spending money on your surgery to boot! And we'll not be able to sell the potatoes from the garden now because we don't have money to buy food at the market. So if you don't like potatoes, like them or starve. I hate you!"_

 _She then lunged toward me, and I was helpless to resist. I remember thinking that this would be my demise, at the hands of my mother. But then Garbull came to my aid, grabbing her and shunting her backward away from me. The doctor ushered them out quickly after that._

 _After being discharged, my parents never repaired their relationship with me, so I spent a lot of my days with the cattle, slowly learning to cope with my heavy limp. My favorite companion was an old spotted bull with a peculiar stripe of silver fur running down his back. When I was sad, he would be there to comfort me, and when I was happy he would be there to frolick. Some antique books I read mentioned that a dog was man's best friend, but Old Boone, the bull with the silver stripe, was more than a dog._

 _"Dal, it's time to load up this month's shipment of cows for slaughtering," said Garbull over breakfast, as if he were discussing the weather. "Go and check the breeding records and bring 'em to the truck for loading."_

 _Consulting the breeding records, I realize that Old Boone is due to be shipped off to the slaughterhouses today. Not him, not him! We had done so much together-walking around the pasture as he cropped the grass, laughing as I tried to immitate his mooing to try to converse with him, or sleeping near him on a hay pallet in the barn. And he would soon be taken away as if he were already nothing more than a thick, succulent slab of beef. I shut the breeding records book with a decisive thump and ran out to the garden, where Garbull was planting potatoes. "Please, father, I don't want Old Boone to die, please! He's the only friend I have here!" Mindlessly I continued babbling, until he cut me off._

 _"Nope," he said indifferently. "He's gotta die."_

Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I start slightly as my revery comes to an end. An assault rifle-toating peacekeeper steers me toward the justice building, while the applause dies down and people begin to trickle back to their homes. I notice Hefra chatting animatedly to one of her lady-friends, probably in elation at having one fewer mouth to feed. She probably doesn't realize that she and Garbull will have to take up all the farm work I used to do, but she is oddly shortsighted like that. At least that's what I imagine, as I stop looking back and face the justice building.

Inside, the peacekeepers let Jill and me know that they will give ten minutes for family and friends to say goodbye before we board the train. The train, which will take me to the Capitol, and the games. I begin to analyze myself through the lens of the games because I have nothing better to do. I'm very fit and fairly well-fed. I can handle a whip, but whips are not a typical arena weapon so I will probably have to learn to use something else. Tributes get a few days to train and learn some new skills before entering the arena, so I'll have to learn how to use a different weapon like a sword or spear. I'm not so bad at wilderness survival, having read books about edible plants and hunting in my free time, but reading cannot compare to having to do it for real.

No one will visit me though; the only friends I have are the cows, and they are all locked up in the barn. Some Smellchain girls are escorted in by the peacekeepers, and rush over to Jill's side, blubbering idiotically. Don't they realize they're wasting their precious time crying instead of giving her advice on how to stay alive in the arena? They finally get over the initial sobs to say a few parting words, then leave, escorting a man and a woman who Jill seems to have had inherited her looks from. Another round of sobbing ensues, and her mother actually asks her to try to win. I turn away, in the guise of giving them some privacy, but really it's only so that I can glare at the wall.

A few more people come to see Jill, but I zone out the noise and think resentfully that the whole situation, the hunger games, the Capitol lording over us, is messed up. And then a noise cuts across the indistinct humming in my ears that is Jill's reverse reception committee. It's the sound of a cow bellowing, with that tell-tale quaver. I look up, as my neighbor Jonah escorts Trilla into the justice building. It must look strange, but there she is, towering above the rest of us. I turn to see her looking at me with those innocent eyes. They used to be, anyway, but now they are full of fear. Her mind projects anguish, and though I try to assure her that everything will be all right, she senses that I don't put any conviction behind it. She nuzzles my shirt for several minutes until the peacekeepers come back to let us know that time is up.

I tell Trilla that it's time to leave, but she refuses to stray from my side. Her fear of being left alone in the world with no one who understands her is strong enough to counteract her obedient nature, and there's nothing I can do. The peacekeepers pull out their bullwhips and start shouting at her to go away; a few of them rush at her and try to head her off, but she stands unmoving as the whips come down. Angrily the peacekeepers continue to whip her as I look on, still mentally pleading with her to leave before she incurs a serious injury. I try to shut out the sounds of her pained bellows and the sobs of fear from Jill and the heavy cracks of the whips and the grunts of the peacekeepers, and focus all my willpower on getting her to leave. She turns around and sidles away slowly, eyes downcast. I hear the sound of an assault rifle being cocked, and before I can stop him, a nearby peacekeeper begins to fire on Trilla, who breaks into a shambling run. It's too little, too late, and she eventually falls in a widening circle of red, ironically right outside the entrance to one of the slaughterhouses.

Balling my fists in anger and trying not to let the peacekeepers see my tears, I trudge off to the train that will take me to my unceremonious death. It's like seeing Trilla's end has opened the door to my own. I step onto the train, a polished vehicle designed for comfortable transport. It's far superior to any of our own trains that transport freight to districts 11 and 12. The door swings open and our district mentors, Bessie and Tyson, smile falsely at us as we board. Jewel Thaddeus is also there.

I decide to forgo conversation for the moment and explore the facilities on the train, to help clear my thoughts. There are sleeping rooms, a large dining room with a large round table, bathrooms, and even a viewing balcony so that we can see the countryside and the other districts race by. Servants are a button-press away from any room. All of these are luxuries I have never experienced before or dreamed of. I head off to a bedroom, locking the door and allowing my eyes to close. After the intense morning workout, the shock at being reaped and Trilla's death, I need to let myself relax, and I do. The bed-it's just a pallet of hay in the barn, and I'll wake up to see Trilla standing over me waiting for her food.

Instead, I wake up to Jewel Thaddeus's voice calling me to dinner, so that I can meet my mentors.


	3. Chapter 3

I've never seen so much food at once. Dinner is served buffet style, so I grab a platter, which is about a foot in diameter, and start loading up. I probably take more than is healthy for me, but who cares about health when you're going to die in a matter of weeks anyway? Jill is already at the table, fernetically spooning down food. I sit across from her and begin to eat as well, inwardly marveling at the richness of the meal. How much did this all cost?

Tyson, Bessie and Jewel are also there, but I disregard the noises that they are making, which are probably words, in favor of the food. Finally my plate is completely empty and I look at them as if just noticing they exist.

"Finally," tyson says sarcastically, "we have his attention. I've never been upstaged by a platter of food before."

"Well if he expects to survive he's going to have to stop worrying about food and start worrying about actually killing people," says Bessie, idly fingering a jeweled dagger. Bessie's skill with knives was the main reason she'd won the 46th games. She had worked in the slaughterhouse for four years before being reaped, decapitating cattle as they moved by on the work line. Speed and accuracy were crucial to success and she was one of the best. In interviews, she had often said that tributes were just smaller kinds of cows, and they weren't moving at the speed of the production lines at the slaughterhouse. To her, destroying them was child's play.

"That's all well an' good," I say to Tyson. "But I'm done eating now, so tell me something I didn't know already please."

"Well, we have a feisty one," he says. He is surprisingly adept at speaking the obvious. "So give me a good reason why I should actually mentor you with any hope that you'll win. You too, Jill, stop staring at that empty platter; you can eat more when we're finished." An awkward silence stretches on interminably. Seriously, why is he being such a synnic? Then I realize that I've been thinking the same thoughts about Jill. But about myself? I thought I might have a chance. A small one, but more than Jill over there, who's probably not going to survive into the second day.

"Well, um, I've been raising cattle all my life so I've got some good muscles," I finally say. Tyson waves that aside dismissively. "Yep, you'll need those. But lots of other people have that. Is there anything, hmm, worth talking about... that you can do?"

"I've read up on wilderness survival and edible plants," I venture. Tyson nods at me, his first ever sign of approval. Then he grunts and stares at the table, pondering. Bessie turns to Jill and asks, "And what about you?"

Jill looks paler than her last name. She doesn't say anything for several minutes, and we all just sit impassively, feeling the gentle throb of the train's interior workings as it rolls along past district 8. A huge factory vents smoke up through the roof, creating a haze and partially blocking out the sky.

"Well, um, maybe I'm not too bad with a knife. I was Left Stomach 1." I have no idea what she's talking about, but I presume it has something to do with the slaughterhouse. Bessie smiles at her and says, "Ah, well, we'll see how good with knives you are in training then. It's not just close combat, you know, but throwing and parrying as well. Reflexes are vital when it comes to knife fighting: Your weapon will generally be smaller and have a shorter reach than your enemy's, so you'll have to close that gap quickly or risk a throw. Knives often come in sets in the arena, so you'll probably have the liberty of throwing and then rearming with a new one immediately. Remember to check the balance of all the knives if you have time; some are made distinctly for throwing while others are designed for hand-to-hand combat, and it's often hard to tell the difference. Tributes who indiscriminantly throw their knives around are stupid and usually don't win."

Wow. Bessie really knows her stuff, at least when it comes to knives. I wait for Tyson to give me a similar lecture about edible plants or wilderness survival or hand-to-hand combat, or anything really, but he just grunts a few caveman-like noises. At least that's what I imagine cavemen to sound like, from the books I've read about them. Jewel Thaddeus breaks the silence by asking in a falsely cheerful voice, "how about we watch the recap of the reapings?"

Jewel, Jill and I head over to a sitting room with plush sofas and vases of beautiful flowers. There's a large screen that stretches all along the back wall, providing a full 180-degree view. And there's a glazed ceramic table, at about lap-height for resting one's feet. A few anemones float inside a small aquarium, the water filter making a barely noticeable hum as it does its work.

The television screen flickers to life, and after a bit of channel surfing the recaps begin. President Snow, a small, clean-shaven man, sits in his eliptical office. A large window provides a grand view of the busy street outside, where extravagantly dressed people are crowded around a hanging outdoor tv as if they are watching the reapings live.

"Welcome to the first of many exciting events of the 74th hunger games, and may the odds be ever in your favor," booms the grand voice of Claudius Templesmith. "It is now time to take a first look at this year's two dozen lucky tributes!"

For the next twelve or so minutes, we get choice video clips of the reapings. President Snow's office disappears as the scene shifts to the square of District 1. A scantily-dressed girl with manicured nails and exquisite makeup saunters up to the stage to volunteer, and I think I hear her name as Glimmer, but she's so excited that she's hyperventilating and it's hard to understand. A brutish boy from district two, Cato, lunges forward, nearly knocking the escort off her feet in his eagerness to volunteer. He, like most of the other tributes from districts 1, 2 and 4, has probably trained for several years, giving him and his fellows a significant advantage over the rest of us. We call those tributes careers, because they have made a point of devoting their childhood to preparing for the games. It's unfair and disgusting, but the capitol turns a blind eye to it because they are the most loyal. That's probably because they have all the money that the Capitol and the other districts don't have.

The District 4 male still has sand in his pants as though he was called to the reaping in the middle of building a sandcastle. He's obviously not a career, and though I expect someone to volunteer in his place, no one does. The female tribute from 5, Stara, pads up nimbly to the podium, like a little fox. That wily glint in her eyes, as if she knows something everyone else does not, is unsettling. Luckily, before I get seriously creeped out, District 6 appears. The tributes from districts 6 and 7 come and go, and the only notable thing that happens is that the district 7 male is so shocked at being reaped that he trips and stumbles over a discarded ax on his way up to the stage, falling comically on his bottom.

The girl from 8 shuffles sideways to the escort while staring off into the sun. Her escort just stares nonplussed for several moments before moving on. That vacant expression, the way her legs are wobbling around, District 8 female is definitely dying in the bloodbath; of that I'm quite sure. District 9's reaping, like district 6's, is uneventful, and then it's time to watch myself. Jill looks even paler on the screen than I remember, and I can clearly see her parents struggling to hold back tears, something I was unable to notice before due to the throngs of people. At least I don't look too stupid as I stoically walk up to the podium and stand there. A huge, dark-skinned boy from District 11, Thresh, strides forward as his name is called; his eyes smolder as the escort enthusiastically compliments his formidable physique and asks for a big round of applause. A few halfhearted claps follow, but it's clear that District 11 is not happy today.

The discontent grows as the female tribute, Rue, is selected. It takes me a second to detect the movement, because she's so tiny. My blood boils with rage at the capital for forcing this innocent-looking girl to her death. Rue is so weak-looking that I imagine that Jill could smash her into a pulp. A deafening silence is the only answer to the escort's plea for someone to volunteer in her place.

I didn't expect anything worth mentioning from District 12, but it's actually the most interesting reaping. The single remaining victor from 12 arrives just as the female name is about to be picked, lurches and falls into a chair, jumps back up and then tries to hug the escort, who hurriedly backpedals away with a look of disgust. The crowd is laughing, jewel is guffawing, I'm trying to remain deadpan but failing, and even Jill's lips curl into a half-smile. The escort's voice is unusually high-pitched and cheerful as she calls out, "Primrose Everdeen!"

A twelve-year-old girl, petite as Rue, stumbles toward the stage as though she were in a daze. I can see that part of her shirt is untucked, like a ducktail, which adds to her innocent look. Unlike the reaping in the previous district, the escort doesn't ask for volunteers. And unlike the reaping in the previous district, another girl volunteers for her. I hear the desperation in her voice and realize it must be her sister. It is confirmed when she says her name is Katniss Everdeen, and the bubbling escort asks for the crowd to applaud their first volunteer in decades. Dead silence. You can even hear the big old clock, dangling from the Justice Building roof, ticking away the seconds.

"Look at her," shouts the victor from 12, staggering toward Katniss. "Look at this one!" He hugs Katniss, then screams some insults into the camera so loud that it distorts the audio horribly, so that I have to cover my ears. He staggers around for a few more seconds, then loses his balance and drops off the stage. He's quickly taken away, and the reaping ends as a stocky, well-built boy is selected to be katniss's partner. The anthem plays, and with a final flourish of strings and a flash of the capital seal, the program ends.

Bessie and Tyson arrive, having watched the recaps on a different screen. "Those tributes look about the same as usual," Tyson comments, "Except that boy from 11, he's going to give Kato a run for his money." Then they start chatting about the other tributes, as though they're already placing bets.

"Yep, I'm betting that if the careers' food is destroyed, Thresh is a guaranteed winner."

"Did you see that kid from 4? He had the whole beach in his pants. I doubt he's even set foot inside their training center, haha. And that tan girl from 3, what was that she was holding? Thing with all the beads on it that moved up and down?"

"A soroban," I say. The mentors just stare. I decide to drop the subject.


	4. Chapter 4

I don't realize just how much time we'd spent saying nothing at all until I notice the digital clock in my bedroom. 11:35 PM, already? Being well-rested is vital for tomorrow, so that I can look my best during the chariot rides. I allow my muscles to relax and my breaths to slow. I focus on not focusing on anything. I think of random words and stare vacantly out at the countryside passing by, noticing a few things and missing the rest. I see the head of a man walking into a building and then it disappears and I wonder what he was doing there. I notice a single sheep cropping grass, but it quickly shrinks to a spec that eludes me. Wait, where did that grass come from? ... And then I drift off.

 _"Nope," Garbull's voice booms, "he's gotta die."_

 _I try to explain to him how much Old Boone means to me, about all the time we spent together, about the connection that I'm sure has strengthened since we got to know each other better after Proddo's death. "Nope," the voice of Garbull booms, as if someone's just replayed a soundbyte. "He's gotta die."_

 _I realize that Garbull is not going to budge. He just doesn't understand. Frustrated, my vision blurred by helpless tears, I run to the barn and lead Old boone out. I reach into my pocket and pull out the assault rifle I stole from the peacekeeper inspector yesterday and fire a dozen rounds into his skull from point-blank range. An instantaneous, quick death. It's the most merciful way for him to go; he didn't even see it coming. I sob and sob for hours, tears coarsing down my face into his hide so that a little puddle cascades around him. I'm so caught up in misery that I don't hear Garbull walking toward me. He says, from right behind me, "Wow, this makes our job much, much easier. Too bad his hide's all bloody, we could have gotten some real money for that."_

 _"You don't even care," I screech out at him, my voice cracking like a little kid. "He was the only friend I had here." I lunge at Garbull and shoot him with the assault rifle too. He collapses alongside Old Boone, and they seem to look similar. In fact it looks like their bodies are moving closer and closer to each other and then the distance between the bodies is shrinking and I can't tell where Garbull's left side begins and Boone's right side ends. I hear an ominous humming noise and feel a vibration under my feet and the two bodies lift off the ground. I lunge for Old Boone's half of the body, hoping to give it a proper burial, but the entire construction blasts off into the sky like one of the old space rockets I've read about, and the last thing I see of them is Garbull's face flashing an evil grin at me._

No, it was just a dream. I realize I must have screamed. My throat is sore and I'm breathing far too quickly. Calm down, I tell myself. Only a dream. Only a dream. Moaning in a mixture of relief and horror, I stare out the window to ground myself in the present.

This is not the first time I've dreamed about Old Boone, about my powerlessness to save him, about Garbull's lack of empathy. But I've never tried to solve the problem by killing everyone. What am I? I'm definitely not human; I'm a wild beast in the shape of a human. A beast whose wrath is fearsome to behold. The perfect Hunger Games tribute, I think bitterly. Had Old Boone and Garbull been tributes in the games, I would have probably received a nice sponsor gift for killing them. Honestly, I don't know which is worse, especially with the prospect of the games only a week or so away.

I leave my bedroom because I feel stifled. I would love to be back on the range with the cattle, but I have to content myself with taking a leisurely stroll through the train instead. It is really a marvel of engineering that the train barely jolts, dips or tilts. It probably has something to do with gyroscopes or some other advanced technology. Then I hear hesitant footsteps behind me and turn to see that Jill has joined me in the dining car.

"Why aren't you asleep," I ask her. She just shrugs and glowers at me.

"You're one to talk," she says in a neutral tone. "I couldn't sleep."

"I suppose that would make sense; if you aren't asleep, a good reason for that is that you couldn't."

"So, uh, are you, like, ready for the games, or whatever," she asks hesitantly, as if she's dreading to hear the answer. Her face shows her apprehension. I shrug.

"Sometimes I think I'm confident and then I am hit with a curveball," I say. "My muscles are strong, my knowledge isn't all that bad, I don't think I'll die in the bloodbath because I am a quick runner and will just hightail it out of there. But then I wonder how I'll cope with actually killing tributes. I've never been in a situation like that before. I don't think I comprehended the implications until now. I had a dream about killing." And I proceed to tell her about the dream. I leave out the part where I tell Dad that I may have a relationship with Old Boone because I think that would just confuse or disgust her. After I finish, she says, "Wow...that's really scary."

"Did you dream about anything," I ask. She nods.

"Well, I was in my house and really tired after a workday in the slaughterhouse. That's a 14-hour shift, almost no breaks. I could barely move my right hand fingers because they'd been curled for so long as I gripped my knife so I was trying to get the blood back into them. And I suddenly heard our old television turn on, and the voice of Claudius Templesmith asked me if I liked to work in the slaughterhouse, and I said no. And then he made this horrible evil laugh and I flinched back from the screen because his teeth were filed to sharp points, and it was as if he were lunging through the tv screen toward me ready to bite, and he said, "Good. Prepare to die in the Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" Then I heard the sound of a knife being unsheathed from far away, and then I saw a flash of light and the knife cut into my head and stuck there like a cow's horn. I felt the blood gushing down my face and I woke up screaming and could still feel the drip of liquid and I was thrashing around, and I threw all the covers off and the dripping just kept going, and I thought I was really dying, but then I realized it was only sweat, and I couldn't stay in that room."

I don't know which nightmare is worse. Killing a pair of innocent people, or being warned of your death beforehand and then dying. Neither option sounds more appetizing. I awkwardly reach over to pat her shoulder and say lamely, "Well, it was only a dream, right?"

She laughs bitterly. "Ha, are you crazy? You know both of those things are probably going to happen soon after we are dropped into the arena from the feedhole." The tributes for each games get 10 final minutes to say goodbye to their mentors in an enclosed chamber, which we call the feedhole, before being lifted into the arena. Cattle being readied for slaughter are fed a final, fatty meal in a building called a feedlot that is connected to one of the slaughterhouses, and that is where the name Feedhole originated. I just stare gloomily back at her because she's right and there's nothing I can say to change it.

The train's tunnel cams switch on and my eyes water as they readjust to the increased indoor lighting. Outside the window, I just see an endless stretch of gray, unyielding stone. Above us, a sprawling mountain range separates the Capitol from the eastern districts. At school, the history teacher devoted an entire lesson to emphasizing how much of an advantage the Capitol's aircraft were, due to increased visibility from mountaintops. That day in class, we got to control little avatars representing troops from the rebellion in a combat simulation similar to one of the bloodiest battles. I have to give it up to District 3 for giving the Capitol aircraft such potent artificial intelligence design. It was probably the most fun I'd ever had at school. It was definitely the most fun i'd had in a history class, which usually consisted of monotonous presentations about the Capitol's changing leadership over the years.

We exit the tunnel, and the Capitol appears over the horizon. Even from this distance, the scenery reeks of affluence. Impossibly tall buildings partially obscure the clouds in the sky. Rotating electronic signs with overly vibrant letters catch my eye as they move clockwise toward it, encouraging me to buy everything from a new zebra-skin wig to nostril-liner to an aardvark-bone knicknack. There is so much else to see that I quickly lose interest in the billboards and turn my gaze to a group of men holding a curtained litter, probably with a person inside. The litter itself sparkles in the light and probably looks more beautiful than I do. All kinds of people, adults and children, high-ranking officials and common citizens, well-dressed and raddy, crowd the streets to watch us ride by, cheering and clapping so loudly that I can hear it even through the soundproof walls of the dining car. I wave at the crowd-it's the customary thing to do-and Jill does the same. My arm grows more and more tired as we ride through the seemingly endless streets, but I keep going.

"Good to see you're trying to make friends," Tyson's voice says behind me. "Don't want the crowd seeing that you're really normal old surly teenagers. You're going to the remake center because those clothes make you look poor. Your prep teams are probably going to prod you a little bit, but you're used to prods, so get used to it. And your costumes will probably make you look like cows or slabs of tasty beef, so just be prepared for that right now. You're probably going to look like idiots during the chariot rides, but do your best anyway. A happy-looking idiot gets a few more dollars in sponsor money than a mopy one. Bye."

Tyson, with his trademark bluntness, quickly leaves before we can ask him any more questions. My gaze turns back to the wonders outside the window. Stores, restaurants, a huge amphitheater decked out with 360-degree television screens, it all flashes by. And I realize just how rich the Capitol is because of us. It makes me boil all over again.

The train finally stops at the remake center, and we get out in a small terminal with an emblem of a cow on the exit door. It looks like every district gets its own place to park so that the tributes don't have to wait, or get a chance to see one another, until remakes are complete. Inside the remake center, my prep team dashes toward me, apparently eager to get started.

"Dallas," one of them cries, in a high-pitched squeak of excitement. "Oh you look wonderful already. Those abs ... those biceps ... but we gotta get that hair off you first! Just follow us into the prep room and we'll get right to work snipping it off. Marius has just authorized a new pair of groosling-feathered scissors that will cut your hair off with the most efficiency and the least pain, and I can't wait to try them out!"

"Yep," the other agrees. She has a tatoo of a heart on her right arm, and has also pierced the words "I LOVE YOU FINNICK" beside it. The letters are fairly large and stretch all the way from her elbow to her wrist like a lizard tail.

"Who's Finnick? Your husband," I ask. She giggles as if it's the most hilarious thing she's ever heard. "Of course not! He and I met during his victory tour and instantly fell in love. He is just so attractive you see. We enjoyed ourselves for a night and then he disappeared, never to see me again. Broke my heart I tell you, but I quickly got over it because, well, you know that victor from the 66th games? He was twice as handsome as Finnick. But I got the tattoo just to show Finnick that I still care. We sometimes see each other in the monitor room during the games, because he mentors the tributes from 4."

I'm coming to realize that the culture of the Capitol citizens is majorly different from the culture in the districts. Before I can think more about it, we're inside the prep room, and it's time to look "truly handsome".


	5. Chapter 5

I don't look like I'm from District 10 anymore.

Marius, my stylist, insisted that they cut off all my hair, so off it went. Not just the hair on my head, but the hair on my arms, my legs, my eyebrows. I look like an unwrapped mummy. My flesh is pale in the mirror because it's never been exposed so thoroughly. I shiver because my hair provided a good deal of insulation from the ambient air. I've taken it for granted all these years, and now I miss it.

"Time to get you into that snazzy outfit," simpers the woman with the heart tattoo. "Marius should be coming back with it right about ..."

The stylist enters the room, bearing a full-body suit and faceplate. It's brown and the nostalgic smell of beef assails my nostrils as he proffers it toward me. "Take a nice long sniff of that," he brags, "new tech! They had it on sale a few months ago and I knew it would be a fantastic addition to the district 10 costumes this year. Sadly I was forced to scrap the cowboy suit designs to make this all work out. I mean who wants to actually smell a cowboy? They stink worse than toilets after victory tour parties. So I was thinking, what do they do to cows? Well they slaughter them and make beef! They'll definitely promote me to a career district next year! I mean if I can make the district 4 tributes smell like shrimp, well, they'd be irresistible."

The prep team oos and ahs at their exceedingly modest idol as if he's figured out a way to make people immortal or something. I'm not overly concerned with the reaction the Capitol citizens will have, but the tributes are probably going to target us in the arena simply because they remember that we looked like literal fresh meat. I keep my mouth shut to hide my disgust, then reluctantly put the suit and faceplate on. The inside smells just as strongly of beef as the outside and I breathe through my mouth for several minutes before I become accustomed to it. It's not that I hate the smell of beef, but smelling it on my clothing, and-even worse-knowing that it is there intentionally, messes up everything. With the costume on me, I take one last look at myself in the mirror. I am going to die.

It's about 12:30 PM when Jill, our stylists and I finish a substantial lunch of shrimp, buttermilk, crescent-shaped rolls and eclairs. We take a sleek, fast elevator down to the ground floor of the training center, which doubles as a lot for the chariots and a stable for the horses. The other tributes have just arrived in their costumes as well, and we all quickly moved to our chariots, each of which has a district number on it. They look about the same, except for the district 6 chariot, which has side doors and a fake steering wheel and real glass windows, like a car. It makes sense, since district 6 is the transportation district. Stylists and prep teams mill around, giving advice or asking about the newest weird fashion trends or wishing "Happy Hunger Games" to each other or something. Horses whinny and paw the ground and snort restlessly, rearing to run. The career tributes stand in a loose gaggle, loudly joking around and probably predicting how they're going to take each of us out. Most of the other tributes mutter to their district partners or glance around at everyone else before shutting up. I try to shut out the cacophony of all this noise and only partially succeed, so I distract myself by looking at the other tributes instead.

The career tributes-both from 1 and 2 and the girl from 4-have well-toned muscles that ripple impressively from under their costumes as they move. The district 1 tributes are dressed in skimpy, jeweled outfits; the seductively smiling girl has a thin, thigh-length see-through suit so her hips are clearly visible to all, while her partner wears a fancy suit patterned with sparkling golden beads. They wear matching tiaras at eyebrow-height, adding to their luster. Cato's hands are wrapped in vicious, clawed gauntlets, his face is set in a snarl, and he is wearing a ceremonial breastplate emblazoned with a huge leopard with bared teeth. His district partner wears a green and grey cloak but has the same feral snarl as Cato. I see her pat him on the back in approval and admiration; it's clear they're playing the ruthless warrior and the deadly, silent assassin; they seem like a formidable duo. The girl from 4 wears an octopus costume with six extra sleeves that flap limply, while one of the sleeves that has an arm in it waves energetically holding a rubber trident. Next to her, the boy from 4 tries to hide behind her, but keeps flinching as he gets hit by the whirling trident. He's managed to obscure his costume behind the girl though, probably because she is so domineering. I hide a smirk as I wait for the gate to open so we can get this hell over with.

Without a creek, the gate suddenly bursts open and the District 1 chariot rolls out onto the street. Cheers and screams from the crowd drown out all other nearby noises for a second as the procession takes off. District 2, 3 and 4's horses are right on the heels of district 1's and I settle myself in preparation for ours to move. Jill is there too, but I try to ignore her so that I can play the crowd. Behind me, I see the district 12 tributes clasp hands. As I watch, flames suddenly begin to lick up and down their outfits and headdresses. After a few seconds of shock I realize they are completely unharmed, and. As I take off, I see Katniss behind me, actually smiling, as she firmly grasps her partner's hand.

The crowd has settled a bit now that the careers, and therefore the cooler costumes, are gone. I ride past a man who yells, "What's cookin' today!" before he throws a tomato at me. I dodge to the side and it lands on Jill's shoulder, squirting out and covering her left side in juice. Well, that's generally what you put on a sandwich, I think, as she covers her face with one hand while trying to wipe off the mess with the other. It must be humiliating.

As she's wiping off the last of the juice onto the chariot floor, I suddenly hear the crowd go wild behind me and I look back to see that Katniss's chariot has arrived. It completely blows everyone else out of the water with its beauty. I don't see two tributes on the chariot; I see powerful creatures of flame, and the crowd does too. A woman throws a rose toward Katniss, who deftly catches it out of the air. She blows a kiss in the general direction of the thrower and several dozen people hold out their hands as if trying to catch it. The boy grins at the crowd, as if he's excited to get killed soon, and a few girls near him squeal and pelt him with flowers as he passes them by. I can see the balcony with President Snow, observing proceedings, atop it. The TV cameras are focused on the girl and boy who are on fire, barely minding the other eleven chariots. Katniss's face takes up nearly a quarter of the screen alone, while the nearby crowds and her partner take up the rest. The camera crews apparently realize that the District 12 chariot is dazzling them and quickly pan their cameras to catch the rest of the chariots at least for a second or two, but we're almost to the training center anyway so it's mostly too late. And the crowd doesn't want to see the other tributes. Members in the back push forward to catch a last glimpse of the girl and boy on fire before they are swallowed by the training center.

Our next four days and five nights will be spent in the training center, and then we are in the arena until we are dead or victorious, whichever comes first. For twenty-three of us, that's dead. Here the tributes have a the opportunity to learn some new skills to prepare them for the dangers of the arena, and the stylists and mentors get a chance to talk battle strategies, analyze the others' strengths and weaknesses, and enjoy lavish food. I notice Katniss and her partner just entering the double doors behind me and I turn to glare at them, along with just about everyone else. I wonder who their stylists were. What I would give to have them instead!

A pair of elevators deposits the tribute pairs on separate floors numbered by district. Only the district 11 tributes are left as the elevator stops on our floor. Thresh and Rue stare after me as I follow Jill out of the confines of the elevator and into the vast unknown that is our residential floor, but I take one last look and catch Thresh's eye before the doors close to whisk them away. In the hallway leading to a room where I can hear the clatter of cutlery, I contemptuously rip off my fresh beef costume and fling it at the wall where it makes a muted splatting noise before dropping to the ground with a soft thwop. Gingerly, Jill also removes hers, with an audible sigh of mixed relief and revulsion. I take several deep sniffs of the clear air, but the cloying scent of beef still lingers on us, as well as from the spot where the costumes lie in a rumpled pile. "I'm so glad to get that horrible thing off," Jill says. I nod in mute agreement and head toward the food.

Bessie, Tyson, Marius and a similarly-dressed woman who must be Jill's stylist are sitting around a dinner table laden with edible delicacies. They are talking about the chariot rides and sounding annoyed. Marius is particularly bad-tempered as he moodily spears a large potato with his fork. "I spent a small fortune on those new scent products and skipped the Bieberius Justinius concert redesigning those beef costumes. And now that complete newbie Cinna comes and ruins everything! I've gotta ask Crane if he can arrange for Cinna to have a little accident, or at least be fired from the games." He's stopped eating now, the mad gleam of a plot in his eyes. "Or we could sue him for something. Anything. I bet he's dirt poor and just lucked out with that fire stuff."

Bessie and Tyson robotically eat their food, pointedly staring at the table as if they can fool us into thinking they're not hanging on to every word Marius says. It's probably the most interesting thing they've seen so far concerning the games this year; I know I'm riveted. The other stylist tries to mollify him by saying, "Ah well, just remember that flames are good for next year. And remember that that's a quell year. Combine flames with the scent technology, and maybe one more unexpected twist, and you'll have exceptional-looking tributes. You're one of the richest stylists in the Capitol. So you can get hold of the experimental stuff before most of the others. I'll even chip in some, though I have to make sure that I have enough to keep my emergency cellar fully stocked all the time."

"Just shut up, Memnia," Marius barks, the light of madness in his eyes a sign of his rising anger. "Cinna cannot be allowed to get away with this scot-free. He... **ROBBED** me with that stunt, do you hear?" Marius is on his feet, yelling now. "All that money. He probably knew that I'd bought it up and was trying to outdo me. I wonder who told him about it. It must have been Hadrius. Oh man he's going to pay too!" He storms out of the room, leaving a plate of half-eaten food in his wake, which a servant quickly removes.

After the tension of dinner, I head to my room. My stylist is a megalomaniac. Now I'm dreading my interview costume even more. I manage to fall into a fitful sleep.

 _Marius is handing me a suit, shouting at me to put it on right now. He holds a large rusty knife and points it at me before breaking into evil laughter and throwing it across the room, where it sticks in a seam between two of the wall panels. I hurriedly put it on before he threatens to do something worse, and suddenly feel my body break out into oozing sores. Blood squirts out of the wholes as the suit of razor-sharp blades cuts through my fragile tissues, and the last thing I hear Marius saying is, "Oh dear, that must have been a little accident. I'm sorry." His last word echoes horribly as if it's coming to me from afar._


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Reuploaded because of several major grammatical errors. Seriously, please let me know what you think either by follow/favoriting or reviewing.

morning sunlight filters through my window and my eyes open. I feel refreshed, and though my nightmare about Marius unhinges me somewhat, I am in good condition, though I seem to have slept wrongly on my right arm as it throbs mildly. A simple cotton shirt, pants and some black leather boots have been set out for today's outfit so I go into the bathroom to shower and change into them. I expected a simple water faucet and hose, but of course everything's so sophisticated that it takes me several minutes to get acquainted with all the available settings. The shower controls are operated using a waterproof touchscreen that allows you to set everything from the pressure of the water to the scent of the shampoo and soap used. I quickly select the options that sound the most appealing and sit up to my neck in scalding hot water and bubbles, feeling the throb slowly recede from my right arm.

I cling to that feeling of solace long after I've convinced myself to emerge from the tub and open the drain, which greedily slurps down the water. It reminds me painfully of Trilla, who was always more enthusiastic about drinking than eating. She had always been wary of what I was feeding her, but I had no more information than her about what was in it. In fact I probably had less, because I never ate it.

The hallway is empty, but Jill's door is open, so she's probably already at breakfast. When I arrive, she is just placing her platter on the table. She's wearing a plain shift of cotton, the same material as my shirt, and a pair of leather work boots. Our mentors, Bessie and Tyson, are also present. I quickly serve myself some eggs and bacon and a glass of apple juice to drink. I don't think I've ever seen a real apple, nor have I drank its juice. It rushes down my throat and I can only compare it to the way leather balls roll down the steep cliffs that mark the edge of the ranging grounds. The eggs, which have been treated with several different seasoning herbs, are fluffy, with just the perfect consistency that they can still be bitten without difficulty while keeping their shape. Breakfasts like this were unheard-of at home, even though breakfast was the most important, and therefore biggest, meal of the day. Cowherds and slaughterhouse workers both needed that initial core of stamina to be able to get the day's work done efficiently and often had to delay or skip afternoon or evening meals depending on the needs of the cattle or the looming deadline of production quotas.

"Ah, good, we're all here," says Tyson. "I was just about to send an avocs to yell at you to wake up." He then laughs bitterly at his little joke, but the rest of us stare uncomfortably at the table. "Training's starting today. Not that it'll help you, because you only have three days. Still, better than nothing I guess. They have both combat and survival skill stations in the training center. If I thought you'd listen to me, I'd advise you to ignore the cornucopia and run for the wilderness, which would mean focusing on the survival. But no one ever does, so do whatever."

"And remember," Bessie says, wagging a finger at us. "Don't show the others what you're good at. You don't want to give that away. Try and spend these next three days learning something new that you might actually use. They have a knot-tying station in the survival area, where you can learn to set up snares. The problem with snares is that you need to set up more than one to have a good chance at actually trapping something. So unless you're already pretty good at knots, don't waste your time there. Learn to build a fire without matches, about edible plants. A fair amount of tributes have died over the years by picking the wrong kind of plant because it just looked like a safe one they new from home. The games don't work that way. Training starts at 10 so you have about 35 minutes before it starts."

The training arena is below the residential floors, so we take the elevator down there. Jewel tells us that escorts and mentors are not allowed in the training arena and points us toward the elevator around 10:50 before disappearing into an ajacent elevator. The tributes from District 11 are with us also. Thresh's eyes fix on me, but he remains silent. Finally, I ask him, "What?"

"This afternoon," he says. His voice is surprisingly quiet for his size. I glance questioningly back at him, but he does not elaborate, and the elevator is slowing down. The doors slide open and we walk through a set of double doors into a room the size of several barns combined. Straw likenesses of humans and large multicolored round cylinders have been placed on one side of the room. On the opposite side I notice some fake trees to practice climbing, an obstacle course for agility tuning, a table that is piled high with ropes, and an area with various labeled cans that probably contain paints or dies.

The career tributes are already there, messing around with the training weapons or actually sparring with the training staff. As the minute hand on the clock moves toward 12, more tributes trickle in, staring around and trying to comprehend their options. The tributes from 12 appear last, out of breath from running I suppose, and holding hands as if they haven't let go since the start of the chariot races. Thresh, the careers and a few others stare daggers at them. Without their flaming costumes on, they're just kids that will soon die, and that is a great equalizer.

The instant the minute hand hits 12, a no-nonsense woman steps into the center of the room and addresses us. Her name is atala and she and a few others will be making sure that training operates smoothly. There are two major sections, combat and survival, both of which are important in the games. We may go where we wish among the stations, but we can't leave the training center until we are dismissed for lunch. Tributes may not attack each other, but extra training staff are available at all the combat stations in case a tribute wants to practice with a partner. She ends by wishing us good luck, then leaves us to train.

The careers continue showing off while the rest of us try to ignore them to learn something new. Katniss and her partner visit knot-tying while Jill heads for the knives. Out of the corner of my eye I see Rue and Stara heading for edible plants, a smart move considering they would probably not last long in a real melee; focusing on learning to survive and conceal oneself will be key for them.

I decide to visit the obstacle course. I climb up a ladder to the launch point where a woman is waiting with a small necklace which she gives me. It is apparently a timing device that is remotely started when I take my first step onto the course, and stopped when I touch the finish line. The next few minutes are occupied with running up spiraling flights of stairs, climbing hand-over-hand on poles, jumping over pits, vaulting over another pit with an overhead rope and more, all while being harried by training assistants wielding soft light pillows as clubs. If I dawdled in one place too long, whether I'd fallen into a pit and had to climb out, or was bracing myself to use the rope swing, the clubs were there to hurry me along. I finally exit the course, my breath coming a little faster than usual. There's a screen that has a list of all attempts in the last half hour, and I see that of the four tributes that have tried it, my time is bested only by Marvel. I can't think of who that is for a second, then i remember that he was decked out in pricey-looking jewels during the chariot races, so he must have been from district 1.

A few people are busy poking around with training spears when I get to the station. I didn't know what weapon I would try to learn, but a spear looked as close to a cattle prod as I would get here, so I'm going for it. The two tributes from 6 can barely lift the spears they've selected, and finally they manage to lift a single one between them. They obviously didn't read the weight signs listed; it looks like they picked up a 7-pound spear, the heaviest available. I grab a 4-pound spear, testing the balance of the weapon, a six foot long pole that connects to an iron point on the other end. It's a simple weapon, but deadly, and the range advantage is slightly reassuring. The instructor shows us some of the basic moves and I copy them clumsily, realizing just how much of a disadvantage I have against the careers. After a half hour or so of drilling, we're told to practice hitting the training dummies with our spears. It's harder than it looks.

During a break in the drills I notice Katniss and her district partner loitering at the camouflage station, the one that has the various leaves, paints and dyes. Her partner is busy daubing his right arm with the stuff, while she just looks on in wonder. When he's done, I'm impressed to see that he's patterned his arm to mimic the various hues of sunlight on a clear day, just as the sun has begun to set. The image reminds me of many days I'd spent, bonding with the cows.

 _The cow flops down, sides heaving after a long run around the ranging grounds. He's old and his mate is dead, but I still make sure that he, along with the other cows, get their exercise. He appreciates the work, even if it tires him out more quickly than it did when he was young. I sit alongside him, patting the rough back, my fingers lovingly caressing his short, unyielding horns. I can just see the bulge of two of his stomachs protruding from the ground. I realize that I'm even more winded than he is; my left leg is still recovering from that terrible accident._

 _After catching his breath for a few minutes, he's up and bounding away again. I climb to my feet, grunting with the exertion, and set off after him. He keeps wanting to go past the boundaries of the ranging ground into the neighbor's area. I have to keep blocking his way before he gets the hint and turns left to continue circling the boundary. A few minutes later he does it again, and I realize that I don't know what's on this side, because it's directly behind the barn, and the other cows always travel away from the barn. I continue to run even though my leg throbs with real pain now, curiosity lending me endurance. We stop short at a hedge made of the branches of trees they are blocking. The hedge stretches uninterrupted for a full 100 feet to my left, and the huge ranching ground partition wall hems me in on the right. Now truly interested, I lead him to the left until we see a steep stone shelf that extends over the top of the hedge. But I'm so tired now that I have to head home. We'll have to continue exploring tomorrow. As I sit down to rest before the journey back, the sun peeks out from miniscule gaps in the hedge, in myriad shades of yellow and orange. And I tell the cow beside me, "you are a natural explorer, and will make one out of me, Old Boone."_


	7. Chapter 7

Jill and I join the crowd of tributes heading for the dining room off the gymnasium to eat. Perhaps the room isn't only used during hunger games training; there are tables and chairs capable of easily seating several hundred people. There are numerous carts of food manned by avox servants for the tributes' consumption as well. The career tributes, except the boy from 4, gather at a table near the front of the room, chatting raucously as they eat. Most of the tributes sit alone or with their district partners, eating at a much more sedate pace than the careers. I find Jill in the crowd and she follows me to a table with her food. The fox-faced girl from 5 and Thresh from 11 decide to sit with us, and I note that their district partners are alone.

"Hello," Jill says cautiously, staring at the girl from 5. Her eyes aren't quite focused on her food, as if she's juggling several thoughts in her head at once. Her face is a blank mask.

"Do you feel ready for the arena," the girl asks abruptly. Her eyes are fixed on us with a powerful intensity of purpose. I get the feeling that she is not asking if we are ready to kill a bunch of kids, so I don't know how to answer.

"No," says Jill truthfully. "I am not ready. I need to practice my knife throwing more." The girl, Stara, just looks at her oddly.

"How do you define ready," I ask, eliciting a nod from the girl.

"Yes, that is, of course, the pertinent question," she says. Her voice is breathy and sort of quiet, like she doesn't use it much. "How do we play this competition that we must enter? What do we do after the games if we win, and how do we want to be remembered if we lose?"

Of course, these questions have always been the elephants in the room. The Capitol covers it up with glamor or pregame business-training, abundant food, interviews, chariot rides-and we cover it up with brevado or bluster or humor. But it really comes down to kill or be killed, does it not? I say something to that effect, and the other tributes nod. Stara does not seem overly impressed.

"What of human dignity? More than anything that the Capitol does, the Hunger Games is a violation of a human's universal right to dignity. Forcing us to kill other children who would otherwise have been able to live useful lives, under the pretense of settling a seventy-four-year-old feud. The Hunger Games promotes a step backward in our civilization," she says. Her voice is quiet and calm, but intense. The passion in her face is unmistakable. Even Thresh, who's face has always been set in some form of a scowl every time I've seen it, is considering the argument. Jill is completely in awe of the other girl's audacity. I am too, but I keep my face blankso as not to arouse as much interest. Off to my right I can hear Katniss and Pita talking animatedly about something, and then they both start laughing a little too loudly. I and a few other tributes stare at them and Katniss looks down, blushing slightly.

"But we're going to die anyway," Jill says. She sounds kind of resigned. Stara turns away.

The afternoon proceeds in a similar vein to the morning. I continue to learn the intricacies of the spear, and Jill the nuances of the combat and throwing knives. I notice Pita, Katniss's district partner, pummeling a training dummy. Every punch is deliberate and accurate, as though this were simply an academic demonstration, when I know that those hands could just as easily be crushing my body. He has a singular focus to his moves that I could never hope to emulate when it came to doing anything at all.

As I aim at the dummy's heart with my spear I notice the District 3 boy clumsily adjusting the spear in his hands and messing up the correct grip. My blow impacts the dummy right on the red oval that indicates the chest, and I hear a pained screaming sound effect from it. The red oval expands to emulate blood. After a few seconds, the blood disappears and the red spot shrinks back down to an oval so that I can hit it again. And that is what I do for the rest of the training session.

Dinner is served on our floor, with only the Avoxes, Jewel, Bessie and Tyson as company. Bessie asks me about how trainingw ent, and I tell her about my progress with the spear. I am actually fairly pleased, and she nods at me in approval as well. Predictably, Tyson shrugs and says, "Well, it's better than laying down and dying." Then he ponderously lifts a piece of veal to his mouth. With that apathy and sluggishness, I wonder how he was even able to win his games.

"I'm horrible, "Jill says candidly, "with the knives. I only knew how to handle our slaughterhouse knives. And these are so much heavier. And I can't throw at all. I don't know what I'm going to do!" Tyson nods at her. "Get better."

I can't wait for dinner to finish up. The rest of our meal I have to endure Jill complaining about her ineptitude while the mentors try to tell her it will be okay. Bessie even offers to give her some private training, and Jill agrees, but she still looks doubtful. Her self-confidence must have really taken a hit today. All her sarcasm is replaced by self-abasement, I suppose. I just want some peace and solitude before I meet Thresh and Stara on the training center roof in a few hours, as we decided after training was dismissed. The window is closed, providing a welcome relief from the day's exertions. I turn my back to it so that I can more easily resist the distraction of watching the little figures that are Capitol citizens as they scurry to and fro.

My mind wanders to what Stara said, about the Hunger Games being an outlet by which the Capitol sought to take away human dignity. How many times have I watched people pleading for their lives? How many times have I seen an attacker growling like a feral beast during or after a kill? On the other hand, how many times have I seen a tribute stare death bravely in the eye? With a jolt, I realize that the heroes I had read so much about were heroic not because of the abilities they had, or even because of how they changed their worlds for the better, but because of the way they faced their fate when they thought it to be sealed. That is why even the heroes who did not end life in peace and comfort, such as Theseus, are so well-loved. I realize that that is why I came to respect Old Boone so much after his passing.

 _"But he's the only friend I have here," I say. I had just given Garbull an impassioned speech about everything I had done with Old Boone, and was hoping against hope that he might be saved. Garbull looked at me, and then at the ground, and then at the house._

 _"I mean," he says in a puzzled tone, "I just don't get it. It's a cow. It's a cow that gets sick too often. I've spent far too much money on treating it. Like I know that you can calm animals down. But it's just a cow. There are tons of other cows to replace it with. I know that that silver stripe of fur might look handsome or something, but really, what is it but a genetic mutation-"_

 _"But he's Old Boone," I corrected him. "He, not it." I don't add that I feel like Old Boone was the only cow that truly understood me because Hefra and he refused to listen. I felt like he already knew that and was trying to create an excuse for getting the cow killed so I could be even more miserable. Finally, he sighed._

 _"Until next month, Dal," he said, dropping the garden trowel he was using. "Next month. Then you'll find another cow or wish you had."_

 _I made that month special. I devoted as much time as I could at Old Boone's side. Some days we went out to explore without the other cows. One of those times we came across the mountain and the hedge, but I was so tired that we lay down to watch the sunset, a scene of rare beauty amidst the normalcy of chain-link fences and stone partition walls and huge, surly slaughterhouse buildings._

 _The day after, I devoured a large breakfast and walked back to the cliff with Old Boone in tow. I decided to attempt the treacherous climb that day and had brought a long cowhide rope with me for the purpose. When the rope was secure, I began to climb, slowly at first in case my recovering leg gave out. It did not, though it throbbed painfully when I put weight on it. Beside me Old Boone struggled along, and though he was fairly agile, old age was working against him. Several times I found myself hanging in midair with only two grips and had to look around quickly to find the nearest hand- and footholds for the others. My nerves and muscles were tensed to burning by the time Old Boone and I made it to the top of the shelf and found a fairly flat rock to sit down and catch our breaths. I was surprised at how far in the sky the sun had moved; it must have been almost lunchtime._

 _Old Boone looked at me, then pointed his head back down the cliff. I thought he was wondering why I was here and not at home, and why he was also. For a while, I struggled to figure out why I have not yet climbed down. I told him, "because I feel right here." Nature rules here; I saw the sun shining on a grove of coarse mountain vegetation and reflecting off the water of a small streamlet. A small animal drank from the streamlet and scurried away. In the distance I could make out the silhouette of one of the slaughterhouses against the sky, but its drab gray color could not compete with the natural beauty nearby. I also heard the sounds of water running slowly through the streamlet, the leaves in the hedge rustling slightly as the wind gusted pleasantly against my face, the distant growl of a wild animal chasing prey. I failed to hear the then-universal sounds of cattle lowing or people shouting that I had always thought of as general ambient noise. Now that it was gone The true ambient noise emerged from hiding._

 _After several minutes of listening and watching and smelling Nature's beauty, Old Boone turned his head away from the cliff face and moved farther forward, toward all the new edible plants he could not wait to enjoy. I asked him to come back down the cliff face with me so that we would be back in time for dinner. He was not happy about this, and I wondered why for a second before realizing that he knew that by staying here, he could avoid the gruesome death that awaited him at the slaughterhouse. Loading day, when the cattle are loaded up to be taken to the feedlot before their final meal, was in two days. With a shock, I realized that he was sad that he would die, yet accepted the fact that I might lead him to his death. I saw him in a new light, and I realized he was far too noble to die._

 _My choice was hard: I could leave him here, or I could enjoy a few more days of his company before having to watch him die. The choice, though hard to bear, was obvious. I decided to leave him, and as he ventured forward, I turned away to conceal my tears. I might never see him again if he decides to range far, especially considering my weak leg. The climb up here would be far too taxing for me to do it regularly. As I gripped the rope to begin the descent, Old Boone turned toward me and I felt his gratitude for saving him from a horrible end at the slaughterhouse. His thoughts were hopeful and content, and as I began to climb down, I felt his mind in the back of my own as he searched for a place to sleep. That contented feeling, even though I am conflicted about seeing him for the last time, has been accessible to me ever since._

The Hunger Games is a slaughterhouse, where 23 humans are killed while a gleeful crowd watches them go. But at least I can end my part in the games on my own terms. And I will. I can feel Old Boone in my mind, lowing approval, as he crops some healthy grass with more gusto than I've ever seen him have while eating. It is probably because the grass, unlike the Capitol-supplied feed, is natural. I have never felt so like Old boone, yet no I know the answer to Stara's question. I am ready.


	8. Chapter 8

Jill and I meet in the hallway outside our rooms and head through a small door and up three flights of stairs onto the roof. The breeze is pleasant and natural and outside noise is fairly audible now, hopefully masking hushed conversation from unwelcome ears. There are several separate gardens on the rooftop with well-tended plants in them, probably another job of the avoxes. It's probably one of the more pleasant duties they have, I think as I catch sight of Thresh and Stara emerging from behind a synthetic tree. We meet at one of the railings which rings the roof, and stare down at the panorama below. People can be seen moving about and transport vehicles can be glimpsed driving around the streets, tiny figures from this height. My gaze fixes on a sprawling building that is larger than most houses, but smaller than most of the multistory complexes nearby.

"Snow's mansion," Thresh says, his eyes on the house as well, a scowl on his face. His voice has lost most of the tendency to grunt now, though he still sounds like he could regain the grunt at any time. After seeing him on guard, it is honestly kind of cute, but I decide to refrain from telling. Snow is the Capitol's president and is very involved in overseeing the games every year. At home, I often thought that his eyes were looking right at me through the TV screen. His mansion seems to cast a shadow over everything, as if the spirit of the president is hovering over the entire city. Unsettled, I turn away.

"I understand," I say to Stara, forsaking preamble. "I get what you meant. We are remembered by the crowd according to the actions we do and the things we say in the arena. We must make sure that they reflect what we want on us."

"How did you figure that out," she asks simply, nodding approval, her elusive facial features transforming into an illusion of a smile. For several minutes, we simply observe the scene outside the training center, saying nothing. Finally, I move toward one of the gardens, where I can hear the tinkling of wind chimes. The others follow me as I sit down, stretched out comfortably, next to a row of flowers.

I don't know why, but I relate the memory of my last days with Old boone, for the benefit of the others as well as Stara. Their faces are slightly impressed, especially Jill's ,who seems to have taken the idea of self-abasement deeply to heart. I try to remind myself she will die soon so I don't think about how depressed she looks right now, but I don't entirely succeed. I mentally reprimand myself and turn away from her problems, towards the games looming large for all of us. "I don't want to be like the 73 other district 10 males," I say. And even though I realize that this is a generalization, it has the desired rhetorical effect. "And I don't think you want to just be a copy off the mold either," I say, pointing at each of the others in turn.

So for the next hour we share our knowledge of previous hunger games, our skills, our strengths, and to a lesser extent, weaknesses.

"It's tough living in District 5," Stara begins hesitantly. She probably hasn't revealed herself to anyone with such candor. "Food is hard to come by, especially if you're poor, like me. I have to steal it a lot of the time. And I can't steal much because otherwise people will know it's missing, and the peacekeepers will punish thieves harshly. We aren't able to hunt either; anything you have that is made of wood or paper is destroyed because with all the light and heat around, it could start a fire. We learned that back in the early days of the games, rebels would often set fire to buildings to decrease visibility as they made their escape or to trap enemies inside them. Yes, our homes are made of brick. They take longer to build, but at least they're fireproof. Tables? Synthetic wood imported from the capitol, I think district 3 makes it in their factories.

"I've read a few books about hunting, and I don't think I'd be too bad at it. But with no wood, there's no chance at making a bow or even a simple snare. The fields outside the district boundaries are teeming with animals-if only I could get a weapon and kill them. I've snuck out past the fence before to watch them and they seem so carefree and sometimes I yearned for that freedom as well. I tried to catch them with my bare hands after studying their feeding patterns, but I was far too slow. The library is pretty sparse too; the district leadership has been banning books for years and years because people distracted themselves reading when they were supposed to be working on the newest lighting technology, and now there's little more than books about light left there for research. I was able to save a few before they were all confiscated and most likely burnt." She sighs.

I imagine living life trapped inside a brick house, my three-shelf bookcase barely a quarter full, reading the same book over and over because I've read everything else too recently and remember it. There are no ranging grounds, no cows, no freedom, only lights that burn the eyes and unyielding brick houses and the sight of carefree animals to capitalize on the sense of impotence that I have. Stara's life sounds so stifling that I want to hug her, but she recoils back when I move toward her. So much for that idea.

I tell them about my enhanced ability to communicate with the cows and my increasing prowess with the spear. Jill says that she might get lucky with some knife throws if she is even able to get a knife in the cornucopia, then sighs, shoulders slumping. Thresh's intense gaze looks back toward the steps, and he mumbles something that we can't hear. When we ask him to speak up, he refuses outright. He doesn't speak again while we are together on the rooftop.

After revealing so much about ourselves, there is no way we cannot be allies in the arena. After all, each of us knows key information about how the other three work, even brooding Thresh, that rejecting the alliance now is tantamount to asking to be killed at the earliest opportunity to ensure silence. As we head back down the roof stairway, waving goodbye to Thresh as he turns into the hallway on his floor, I wonder how we even built that mutual trust in the first place. A few silent glances in the elevators, a few muttered orders during lunch this afternoon. He had done it. I still did not know why Thresh wanted me, but he did.

"Good night," Jill says, as she enters her room.

"Sleep well," I say back, and she closes her door. I hear the slight rustlings of her getting ready to sleep as I head away to my own room. The male avox assigned to me is just finishing up making the bed when i enter. He quickly averts his eyes from the door, which he must have turned to instinctly as he heard it open. I brush past him as he leaves, and as I enjoy the cocoon of blankets I've created, I fall into a refreshing, dreamless sleep.

The other days of training pass similarly to the first one. Besides Jill, I make sure I spend time with Stara and Thresh, sometimes alone, sometimes in a three- or four-person gaggle. The game makers sit on an elevated balcony, eating food, taking notes, chatting amongst themselves and, every so often, looking at us. Besides spear mastery, I learn how to identify typical edible plants that are found in the arena, build a fire using matches, climb a tree. I wonder how many skills I'll actually remember when the pressure is on and I am simply trying to stay alive.

"Look," Stara says suddenly to me on the third day. We are together at the camouflage station, unsuccessfully trying to replicate Pita, who has managed to paint and daub himself with branches and mud until he looks indistinguishable from one of the small tree stumps nearby. I can only tell which one is him when he points at my left pant leg, where my sloppy spreading makes the cloth clearly visible amid everything else. That would probably be worse than no camouflage at all. I look questioningly at Stara.

She points toward Katniss, who is looking around trying to find something to do. Eventually Pita drops his camouflage gear to follow her to the knife fighting station. "Yeah, she's the girl from 12, right," I say lamely. It's all I can think of.

"No, no, you missed it. Her eyes. I've noticed her during the previous training days. Whenever she is browsing the arena for a new station to visit. She checks each one for about a quarter of a second and then moves on, clockwise or counterclockwise-it seems kind of random which-until she finds one."

"ye-e-es," I say slowly, drawing the word out as a question, because this all seems pointless and today's the third day and we have less than an hour before lunch and our private sessions with the game makers. She doesn't seem to be overly worried about missing time for some last-minute cramming.

"Whenever her eyes hit the archery station, they snap away more quickly than usual. She's obviously been ordered to not use that station. Have you seen her go there? Because I have not."

"So, you're saying that you think she's an expert shot and doesn't want to show us?"

Stara nods, and I consider the implications of this. The girl from 12 might be just as dangerous than the careers. Even more so, because they usually don't learn archery, preferring the more violent clashes of close-range fighting as it's more exciting to watch. It's too late to try to set up an alliance with her-it's the third day. Plus I'm still bitter about her chariot ride costume, because I barely know anything else about her. There's nothing I can do, so I focus on doing some last minute practice against the spear training dummies before lunch, and our private sessions.

Our names are called one by one, the boy first and then the girl. As the room empties out and my time draws nearer I become more and more nervous about what I'll do. Misgivings enter my mind and I fight to hold them off. They've just called Stara away. If she's smart she'll hide her cunning behind a low score; I know that's what I'd do in her place. The girl from 8 walks unsteadily out of the room as her name is called, staring at the ceiling and occasionally bumping into things on her way out. It's so quiet-we're so nervous-that the thumps are clearly audible even though she's 15 to 20 yards away. No one is at ease enough to laugh or point or anything.

"Dallas Mooer," a voice booms around the dining room. I get up, trying to hide the sweat from my palms, and smile nervously at Jill as I reach the door. She gives me a halfhearted thumbs-up. Thresh just stares stolidly at the table. Katniss and Pita whisper to each other, knowing that their time is not far in coming.

I enter the gym. It's spotless, everything in its right place, so that it's impossible to guess what the other tributes before me showed them. I grab a spear and head for a dummy. With perfect technique, I stab into its chest and rip the weapon free, hearing the satisfying scream of pain issue from it.

I look up at the game makers. A few of them nod approval. Most of them continue eating and chatting among themselves. Annoyed that most of them are ignoring me, I move along the line of dummies, stabbing each one in a similar manner, as fast as I can, while still practicing the technique I learned. My chest heaves with exertion after I'm finished. More of the game makers are at least looking at me now, but they are still not interested enough. I can see it in their expressions, in their faces which keep turning back toward their platters of food. I lunge toward the balcony, attempting to use the top of the wall to vault up on to the balcony floor to show them that I can, but my hand slips off and I fall, just managing to land on my feet. I have at least grabbed their attention: Now they're laughing at me; I can hear the bellow of anger and humiliation rising up in me, like a bull that has been provoked one too many times. I fling the spear with all the force I can muster toward the dining table, but its weight causes it to fall. It clatters against the wall.

"You are dismissed," one of them says. "Put the spear back where it belongs," he orders to a nearby avox as an afterthought.

My score will probably be in the negatives. Hanging my head in shame, I leave for my room. The game makers return to their food as one of them calls Jill Pailor's name, as if nothing has happened.


	9. Chapter 9

I only open my door when Tyson's insistent knocks turn into annoyed pounds upon it. It's time to eat, he says, his face smoothly blank as ever. After the meal we sit down to watch the training score show. Most of the half-hour we spend watching is filled by advertisements because the true content is so sparse, but it's well-known that companies pay ridiculous sums of money for even a 15-second clip. In between sequences of two to four ads, the tributes are displayed in district order, starting with the district 1 male. A large picture of his face and an equally large, flashing number between 1 and 12 are prominent. In the lower right-hand corner are other statistics, such as weight, height, and the best time achieved on the obstacle course, for the benefit of more analytical people.

The careers, such as marvel, Cato and the girl from 4, all get scores between 8 and 10. Wow, Cato's weight is a body-crushing 211 pounds, and none of the other careers even break 180. The boy from 4 gets a score of 5 and is actually the lightest boy at 108 pounds. Stara manages a 6, which is about average for a non-career tribute. More ads. District 6. They're showing an ad for a magnetized, zebra-bone spoon that attracts itself to food so that you have to use even less effort to eat. Idly I wonder how that could actually work. ... District 9. The girl gets a 3. ... Ad.

My face comes up, and they flash the number 7. That's at least 8 more than I was expecting. The others let out a cheer and Bessie says, "Wow, that's the highest score out of the non-career tributes so far." I look in the corner of the screen and realize that I've gained an impressive 13 pounds due to the lavish abundance of food. Jill gets a pitiful rating of 2; her nerves probably failed her and she missed with all her knives or something, but I don't ask. Thresh, his face fixed in a scowl, comes up with a 10, and his district partner manages an impressive 7. Her weight only has two digits; she's the only tribute with that distinction. The quality of the ads is lessening now; it's obvious that these companies are poorer than their competitors. Advertising space is hotly competitive and the earlier slots always cost far more than the later ones. Katniss surprises everyone with her 11, so I pretend to be surprised as well. I know why she got it, after all.

Marius, who has been oddly dossile during the training score show, leaps up as soon as the screen fades to black. "Interviews are tomorrow, and I've got the perfect interview costume ready for you. But we'll wait till tomorrow. I just wanted you to feel the anticipation before then. Oh, by the way, I found your chariot ride costumes. You do realize just how much time and effort I spent designing them right? And you just threw them away. Well, no matter." On that ominous note, he turns toward the door and pads away slowly, like a wolf on the hunt.

"Uh-oh," I say, my mind full of dread. What horrible plan does he have in store for our interviews? Did Memnia go along with it? She probably did; his controlling nature would see to that. I'm surprised to see that Jill's face does not mirror my misgivings. Instead, it's just empty. Downcast. Devoid of hope. Jill hugs herself and lets her head sag, and I look away as I hear the muffled sobs. I suppose that she was bound to break eventually, and with the games only two days away, it's happened. Better now than later. At least she might have a chance at recovering some of her old steel before they start. Most likely she'll be a wreck at the interviews.

I crawl into the cocoon of blankets to sleep, staring out of the window absently and watching the Capitol night-life scurrying around. Eventually, the motion outside the window begins to blur and become choppy. A red car drives forward, stops, then eludes my focus as I search for it. Wow, it's all the way down the block and turning on to an intersecting street and now it's disappeared. I didn't even see it turning. I just saw the turning lights. There's a man carrying a banana. I notice him walking into a building and think blearily that maybe I should tell him to watch where he's going before he runs into it. He disappears into the building ...

 _I walk around on the street, toting my four-pound spear. Everything is so much bigger now that I am not staring at it from a tenth-floor window. There are shops and outdoor market stalls everywhere, cars driving, people rushing about getting their shopping done, others loitering in groups chatting in a carefree manner. Yet something is wrong. I should not be here. I should be in the training center. I can even hear the voice of Marius yelling at me. "Your interview costume is ready," he shouts, with a mix of jubilation and annoyance. "I already gave you 10 minutes to go shopping outside. Get back here now." The voice is in the back of my head. I turn this way and that to look for its source and just see the training center window. It's broken, glass shards all over the sill, as if I'd jumped out of it._

 _I notice a huge gate on the north side of the city square and run toward it. I bump into dozens of innocent shoppers and apologize until it sounds meaningless. I see a parked car in the middle of the sidewalk and take a huge leap over it and keep running and running. Marius's voice becomes higher- and higher-pitched until it sounds more like a rat squeaking. I run and run and see the gate looming closer. I run harder. The gate is within reach. I see the huge latching bar and move my hand toward it. I hear a clatter and realize that the gate has jumped into the air and landed several yards away. I race toward it and am about to unlock it when the same thing happens. "NOOOOOO," I shout, "I won't let you win!" I lunge toward the gate again, only to be thwarted. I hear Old Boone lowing from the back of my mind, cropping grass with gusto and sipping enthusiastically from the stream. I ask him to lend his strength so that I can outrun the gate. He moos again, and it is almost as if he is laughing._

 _He is indeed laughing at me. I try to project my desperation into his thoughts, but he's set up an impregnible fortress around them with a gate that is similar to the one I'm unable to open. My mind begins to actively assault his mental barrier, but it holds, and I finally give up. On the ground, I stare at the gate, just a few feet from my hand, knowing that if I get too close it will elude me once more. Tears begin to fall freely from my eyes; freedom is so close, yet so elusive. My crying stops when I hear loud booming footsteps advancing down the road toward me, and there is Marius, holding out a handsome leather suit and tie. "Time to go," he says, and he sounds gentler than ever. Then he transforms into Old Boone and begins to gore me with his horn, and I can hear that wild laughter issuing from the Old Boone in my head._

I wake up to the breaking of a new dawn. The sunlight streams through the window and I hear the distant echo of birdsong, counterpointed by the rush of air from speeding vehicles. I take in the calm of reality for several minutes before I feel able to rise from my bed to make myself presentable. Today is interview day. I let my emotions out now; I must keep them under control for the interviews tonight. I allow myself to wallow in the bathwater for a full hour, sighing, crying and compartmentalizing until I am able to hold the smooth mask of efficiency for five minutes without stopping.

After the five minutes are up, I dress myself and head to the breakfast table, where Jill, Julius, the mentors and the stylists are just polishing off their first courses of food. I quickly move to join them. They're talking to Jill about the interviews, but her face is twisted in a grimmace of pain. She's merely picking at her second flapjack, spread with a dainty dollop of syrup. Judging by her unfocused expression, she's not taking in a word they're saying.

"You better eat that up. You only get three more solid meals before the arena," I say to Jill. She turns her head toward me, but her eyes are still infinitely far away. Tyson stops talking and raises his eyes to the ceiling, as if seeking an answer to the dilemma there. Bessie just looks at me and sighs.

"Good morning Dallas," Bessie says, with a halfhearted try at brightness. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yep," I lie, hesitating just enough to make it sound like I thought about the question. "A solid eight hours."

"Ah very good. As you know all too well, interviews are an important part of the pre-game prep. It's one of the few times that you are treated like a person, instead of an expendable object. So you have to pick your archetype or persona or whatever. I know you've watched at least 50 other interviews, so choose something that will help you gain sponsors please. Tyson will help you refine it in the morning. In the afternoon I'll work with you on polishing up your public image. It's not your fault, being a cattle rancher and all, but you have to look smart to get sponsors, so just deal with it. For me and you. Well, no time to waste."

She escorts Jill out of the room by the hand because Jill seems to be incapable of doing much by herself right now. I stand up and follow Tyson down the hallway to a den-like room with deep, plush armchairs and glossy wall-mounted screens. A few potted plants sit on the window sills to benefit from the sunlight. Tyson and I sit across from each other in identical cushioned chairs. He waits till I have settled comfortably.

"Thought of anything?"

"Er," I say limply, my mind racing to contrive something. "Like, uh, what about ... um, hmm-"

"Shut that baby talk up right now," Tyson orders. He sounds more than a little annoyed. "If you haven't thought of anything, it's better to just say no. I don't have time for er and um and what about. Now give yourself five minutes to think. There's a clock right up there." He points to a digital clock on one of the screens that is precise to the millisecond. I begin to think.

I agonize over different angles I could use. 3 minutes in, and I realize that every angle that I might be good at doesn't endear to sponsors. But doing a bad job at adopting one of the more popular personas would be a lot worse. Finally, I say as the minutes tick down to nothing, "I'll be sardonic."

"Hmmmm," says Tyson. "Well, at least I don't have to think about how to coach you. Sardonic's an instinct thing. For the last twenty years I've been feeding prepackaged lines to tributes who wanted to play sexy or barbaric or innocent. I even brought my line book. But luckily I won't have to use it. I guess I owe you one, but don't get too excited about paying it back. You're the one who's going to die after all. Just sit there and think of the snappiest sardonic comments you can for the next three hours. You know the sort of questions Caesar asks; he's been doing these interviews for at least thirty years. He's probably got his best questions on a notepad he consults during the commercial breaks."

Tyson sidles away, leaving me to think of my best cutting remarks. I have to be really careful that my words will not be interpreted as rebellious against the Capitol, or they will invent some especially gruesome method for my execution during the games. So I'll just undercut the tributes instead. Thinking about my competition also allows me to analyze them better. I begin to classify them by various criteria: danger level, weight, weapons I remember them using well, food they enjoyed at lunch. Stara would have been proud, I think, as an Avox enters the room and beckons me to the lunch table.

Unlike the morning, where I was allowed to think in solitude, the afternoon is long and excruciating. My public speaking is far worse than I could have imagined, or so Bessie's coaching leads me to believe. I tend to slouch in my seat, and she has to keep pointing at my sagging shoulders as I practice talking to her as if she's the interviewer. Apparently I'm also too quiet.

"But I have a microphone when i'm up there," I protest. She makes a chopping motion in the air with her right hand. "Microphones are like crutches. You shouldn't need them. You should be able to make your voice heard all the way to the top of that theater without one. I know, because the Ancient Greeks were able to do it. And they didn't even have the privilege of such great food."


	10. Chapter 10

Our penultimate meal before the games is anything but cheery. My throat is sore from talking too loudly and occasionally cursing as Bessie's relentless training drove me to my limit. Jill's eyes are still vacant, but at least her head is a little higher, though she is still eating an unhealthily low amount. Tyson walks into the room, eyes tired, and takes his seat with an overly loud thump. Bessie has bags under her eyes and her arms are crossed, but she still has enough control left to not seem too annoyed at our lackluster preparation.

Jewel, Marius and memnia are still in good spirits. Our escort, energetically spooning lamb stew onto his plate, says, "I've lined up a few good sponsors for Dallas. Mostly people who are getting bored of the career districts. Gotta keep the games interesting I suppose. Though you can't believe just how many people want to chip in to help that girl from 12, Catnip I think she's called. That 11 in training was a big shocker!"

After the food, Marius rushes me into a side room to change. When he shows me my handsome interview suit, I have to tell myself twice that he hasn't put any surprise tricks into it or something. Inspecting it in and out reassures me that it won't cut into me, and I smell no unexpected aroma from it either. Hesitantly I begin to don it. Marius is twisting his hands around incessantly and tapping his foot impatiently upon the rug, but I decide to prolong the donning as long as I can to annoy him. His leg muscles are tensing to lunge towards me and finish the job when I fasten the final button and spin slowly around so that he can inspect the back of the suit as well.

"Very good," he says, his voice struggling to stay steady. "Now, check out the left pocket."

The left pocket is closed, so I unzip it to see what's inside. It looks like he has built in a small electronic panel into the pocket with a button I can push with my index finger. "Wait, wait," he says hastily, "you have to do it at the interview. You can't do it before. The surprise factor needs to be genuine. Plus there's only enough time for about 15 seconds of power before it dies."

"Um," I say doubtfully, "thanks. So does Jill have a matching outfit?"

"Yep," he says. "Except she's wearing a heavy blouse as compared to your suit. It has a similar button on it though. Now go out and impress the crowd for me so that I can continue to get the latest tech to make my costumes look great!"

The elevators drop us on the ground floor of the training center, and we head away from the gymnasium and into a greenroom before the outdoor stage. The tributes are all assembling there, and as I look around at the others, I realize we are woefully underprepared. The tributes from 12 look beautiful, with their hair done and flame accented jewels adorning their apparel. Even Stara manages to stand out, with a robe of soft, silvery fur that reminds me of a fox and a sash holding a circle of perfectly-balanced candles to represent her district. Rue's stylist has done a wonder with her gown, adding wings to the arms and fringing the back in vibrant colors so that it looks like bird plumage whenever she moves around. Marius's staid suit with its mysterious button pales in comparison to the competition.

A stage attendant calls for silence, and as the final chatter dies down, the curtains burst open with a flourish. A gust of cool, outside wind hits me, helping to counteract the heat of the many ceiling lights focused on us. Several balconies hold high-ranking groups of people, such as the game makers, mentors and stylists. A whole bank of cameras has been deployed so that the tributes can be photographed with a full 180-degree viewing area. Thousands of ordinary citizens throng the streets, craning their necks upward to view the many provided television screens. I can't believe it's really happening.

Raucous cheering, along with an exciting soundtrack, assault my ears for several minutes. As Caesar Flickerman, the host of the interviews, appears on the stage, the crowd slowly quiets down and the music fades out. He is wearing his customary twinkling suit, and this year he has decided to dye his hair blue. He welcomes everyone to the interview show, then tells some anecdotes that the crowd seems to find amusing. I, however, just want him to get to the interviews so I can go to sleep.

"Glimmer Topason," he calls, and the District 1 girl, clad in a transparent, gold gown, saunters up to the stage. I notice men in the back of the throng shoving other people out of their way to get a better look at the nearest screens. Her interview is devoid of substance; she just keeps making provocative comments until her three minutes have been spent. The buzzer sounds, and she pirouettes around once so that everyone can watch her garments flowing sensually before heading back to her seat.

Cato, the boy from 2, is wearing a shirt of fire-blackened scales and a horned helmet engraved with red dots. As he mounts the stage, a respectful, awed silence comes over the crowd. "Ah, Cato," Caesar says jovially, managing to stay unruffled in front of the boy dressed like a battle-ready warrior. "So, I assume, by your no-nonsense appearance, that you are ready for the games?"

"Yup," he says. "I'm gonna make those tributes eat their own blood. They'll stand against me and I will twist their necks with my bare hands. And if I can't do that, I'll be sure to have a nice sharp longsword ready!"

"Sounds like you know how you're going to come home from these games then. I also noticed that you got a very strong score of 10 in training. I believe I speak for all of us when I say that we expected great things from you, and you delivered impressively!"

"Ha!" Cato punches the table separating him from Caesar. It shudders against the force and some of Caesar's notecards slide off so that he has to bend over to retrieve them. The crowd laughs uneasily at this display, but Cato is still talking. "That girl! From 12. She somehow got a higher score. I'm saving my best kill for her. And I'm not going to tell you what it is because it's gotta be a surprise. But it's going to involve my sword, and it's going to involve my fists, and more. I won't let her get away with that stunt!"

Caesar, righting himself, manages to rejoin, "I think you already have. We all saw that 11!" The crowd howls with laughter, and the buzzer sounds, dismissing Cato. He marches back to his place, trying to hide the fury that is all too evident in his jerky movements.

Most of the other interviews blur together into a monotony of cheering, meaningless talking, occasional laughing and a final dismissive buzzing. I do note a few standouts here and there, such as Stara, who manages to duck and weave all the way to Caesar without anyone in the audience noticing. He jumps as if startled, and they spend the three minutes discussing trickery and elusiveness. The girl from district 8 doesn't say anything the whole time, staring right into a camera lens near the left of the camera bank. She doesn't realize that the buzzer indicates that time is up, so one of the escorts has to guide her back to her place.

"Jill Pailor!" Jill takes a step forward. Her shoulders are hunched down and her breathing is rapid. Both hands are clenched into fists at her sides. At least she looks presentable; the prep team spent a lot of time disentangling her hair and putting some light makeup on her face, but some of it is smeared and blotchy.

"What a beautiful girl," Caesar says, pointedly ignoring the tearstains on her makeup. "How was the trip to the Capitol? What surprised you most as you were driving down there?"

"I... I... " her voice is so faint that I can barely hear it. Some people lean forward as if that will help them hear her better.

"It's ok," says Caesar comfortingly, giving her his warmest smile. "No one will hurt you here." This has the exact opposite effect of what Caesar had hoped. Jill bursts into sobs, Her sides shaking, tears falling from both eyes and her nose. My eyes begin to burn in anger and shame as I notice that the TV crews didn't even have the grace to pause the cameras, or even simply focus on something else besides the crying girl. Human dignity again, and all the districts are here to see her lose whatever she had left. I imagine her parents, turning away from the screen, lowering the volume so they won't have to hear the strangled breaths and sobs or Caesar's fruitless attempts to comfort her or the unmistakable titters of the crowd who has seen this happen all too often.

The buzzer sounds, and Jill flees the stage, to a few protracted claps here and there. Stara contrives to move her chair so that it and her body shields the cameras from zooming in on Jill's face, if that were to happen. And then it's my turn, and I order myself to calm down as I sit down across from Caesar.

"Welcome to the Capitol, Dallas," Caesar says jovially. "What's impressed you most since you've arrived?"

Sardonic. "I really liked Cato's horned helmet," I say. "The horn looks like a cow. Complements his body." The crowd chuckles a little, and I can just imagine Cato's fists clenching and his eyes smoldering. It gives me the confidence to continue.

"Yes," Caesar agrees. "He probably weighs more than some of the cattle in your district. Are you missing anyone at home right now?"

"Yeah," I say, surprising myself with my honesty. "I miss the cows. I've always loved to exercise them. Sometimes I've spent four or five hours walking or running with them."

"Well, just win the games, and you can go right back," says Caesar with an encouraging smile. "Speaking of the games, you got a strong score of 7. Can you give us some info on how you happened to get that score?"

"I can't be revealing information like that. You never know when that could be used against you. Though come to think of it I'm not overly worried. Most of these pushovers will be so paralyzed by fear they won't be able to remember anything."

"Well I wouldn't underestimate my competition," warns Caesar. "These tributes aren't a herd of like-minded cows."

"Nah," I agree, "But when I hear them talking they do sound a lot like the cattle at home. Just bellowing and mooing and stomping the ground when they're mad." The crowd roars with laughter, and the buzzer goes off. Stara nods at me in approval as I endure the final four interviews.

Rue, clad in her winged gown, flaps primly to Caesar, and the crowd leans forward eagerly to see her. She says that she's really hard to catch, so we shouldn't count her out. Thresh's interview mostly consists of Caesar talking, while Thresh wears his fiercest glare and answers Caesar's questions with a single word.

"So, the games are only a half a day away. Do you feel ready?"

"Yes."

"You certainly seem well-prepared. I see you got an impressive 10 in training, on par with Killer Cato back there."

"And?"

"Um, that's good," Caesar says, then quickly changes the subject. Katniss is all giggles, spinning around in her beautiful flame dress. She does get slightly more serious when she talks about why she volunteered for her sister, but before the interview can get really interesting, the buzzer sounds. It's a shame that she spent so much time acting silly.

Pita, her partner, is a natural at presentations, joking around with Caesar for a full minute before he gets down to business. Unlike most of the others, he seems reluctant in some odd way. He doesn't smile when Caesar seems impressed at his strong training score, and his expression becomes pained when Caesar asks him if he has a girlfriend back home. Caesar encourages him to win the games for her, but he says that it probably won't help.

As Caesar asks him why, I notice that everyone has focused on him. No one's talking. And then pita tells everyone that his girlfriend is none other than Katniss. I notice katniss, staring open-mouthed at him. It must have come as a genuine shock to her. Very well-played. This will definitely up the sponsor count for District 12, providing its tributes with a better chance at winning. As the crowd unleashes its pain and emotions, the implications of the situation hit me. Pita and Katniss in love, and going into the arena. This has never happened before, not publicly at least. The crowd is conflicted about the decision, and since the Hunger Games must satisfy the crowd, they are failing now. The power dynamic is changing, I realize, as the interview show comes to a close and we head back into the training center to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

My eyes open to a dark night, though dawn is not far off. The sun slowly begins to rise in the far east sky, a small dot of light that gradually enlarges to a coin, and finally to the size of a coaster. I only know about those because they were a staple at every Capitol meal. The sounds of night life begin to recede, to be replaced by the sound of morning birdsong. I open the window to feel the cool air fan my face and stare at the sun's reflection in the basin of water near my bed. It's the last time I'll be able to do any of this in safety. I empty my mind of all worries and emotions for a brief time, and feel Old Boone there, asleep and content in an uninhabited field.

My door creaks open, rousing me from my brief meditation. Marius is there, looking annoyed, holding out a simple grey shirt to me. "Put it on," he orders gruffly. I do so.

"So, Dallas," he says, as we walk toward the stairway to the roof. "what did you forget to do last night?"

I know very well what he meant but I say, "Uh, I don't know", glancing at him questioningly and trying to sound completely mystified. He stops walking as we alight on the last step. The roof door is closed. "Well, remember what I told you to do? I told you to wait till the interviews to press the button in your suit."

"Oh, that," I say, my face clearing. "Well, I was so caught up in talking to Caesar, it just slipped my mind. The crowd loved it though; your button was just superfluous."

"Another big load of money wasted," he says with a sigh. "ah well, maybe next year. I hope you die a gruesome death. And I'm still looking for a way to permanently cripple Cinna somehow. Anyway, bad luck in the arena."

I open up the roof door. An avox stands near a simple table and chair, beckoning toward the food on the table. I quickly eat the simple meal and wait a while before a hovercraft appears to take me to the arena. The ride is brief-less than an hour-and uneventful and I'm the only person inside the craft.

The landing is smooth and I climb down the ladder, which has lengthened considerably. I must be underground. A woman meets me at the bottom and pokes my left arm with a needle, causing me to grunt in pain. "Your tracker, Dallas," she says briefly, pointing at a small room. "All your supplies are in there. I'm surprised your stylist isn't here, but put on those clothes and wait."

The arena outfit is a simple yellow jacket, thin pants, a tight belt and hiking boots. A male attendant asks me if I want any more food or water. Having already eaten, I decline the food, but water is very important in the arena, so I want to make sure I start with a full tank. It's fresh and cool as it slides down my throat.

As I finish it off, I hear a loudspeaker announcement to prepare for launch. There's a circular plate on the ground to step on, and as I do, the ground around the plate rises to my arms, pinning them there. My limbs immobilized, I can only look around and think about the impending conflict. My throat begins to churn. Will my training be enough? Will I even survive the bloodbath long enough to use it? What if there are no spears? What if all the careers go for me? What if Cato targets me because of my insult last night? What if? What if ...

I feel an increase in pressure against my feet as my plate begins to rise up into the air, taking me with it. After ten or so seconds, it clicks back into place. It takes my eyes some time to adjust to the light. After the silence of the launch room, the sound of twittering birds and flowing water is unusually loud. I notice other tributes standing on their plates near me.

"Ladies and gentleman, let the 74th hunger games begin!"

The stentorian tones of Claudius Templesmith fill the air. His announcement signals the beginning of the 60-second countdown. I am free to move, except for the fact that the active land mines would obliterate me if I try before the 60 seconds have passed. These 60 seconds are valuable, because after that, all hell breaks loose. Mastering my racing thoughts, I force myself to partition the time. 15 seconds to analyze the arena layout, 15 seconds to analyze the placement of the other tributes, another 15 to decide my starting strategy, and whatever time is left to prepare to carry it out. 15 seconds might seem like a short time, but I know that if I resist the urge to say the words to myself as I'm thinking, my thoughts will move much faster.

 _Arena layout_ , I order myself. The tributes' plates are arranged in a circle with the cornucopia, a large metal horn, at the center. The cornucopia is teeming with camping gear, weapons, food, medicines and other necessaries to survive in the arena. More valuable items are nearer the horn, less valuable items closer to the plates. Behind me is a large lake, the source of the flowing water. To my right I can see a downward slope leading to a field with shoulder-high grasses. On the left is a large area full of low grass, trees and pine needles.

The tribute plates seem to be equidistant from each other. I notice the girl from 7 on my right and Pita on my left. His eyes are scanning the terrain, probably deciding where he will go when the gong sounds. I can see Katniss's gray jacket about a half dozen tributes to the left, her legs preparing to run forward into the fray. Stara and Jill are next to each other on my extreme right. I catch Stara's eye and she nods. Cato is about across from me, glaring alternately at Katniss and me with eyes full of vengeance. The other careers are scattered randomly around the horn; I notice the district 4 girl next to Thresh and Stara about 4 tributes to my right.

So what to do? I keep telling myself that I have to get my hands on a spear if I am going to have any chance of winning. If I can just get the spear and run away... but no, they'd come after me. But only after they've organized their loot. I decide to try it. I have no chance otherwise, no experience with surviving in the wild. I tense my legs to run but continue to watch the other tributes.

My mental countdown reaches 11 seconds. Pita looks at Katniss and gives her the slightest shake of his head. He, like i, realizes that she is about to head for the cornucopia, and is trying to persuade her not to. But why? She looks at him, a question in her eyes, and Pita begins to lift his index finger to point at something. He turns toward the forested area, but before he can finish I hear a deafening sound of a gong. The land mines have been deactivated. The games have begun for real.

My limbs explode into action. I run forward, my limp barely hampering me now. Weird that I think of it now when I am in no position to do anything about it. I see a big spear in a pile of weapons that, judging by it's position, is of medium quality, and veer off in its direction. Thresh collides with me, running full pelt toward a tent pack in the very heart of the cornucopia. Pita rushes toward Glimmer, who is just a few tributes farther along the circle, and when he reaches her they run toward the supplies themselves. Stara and Rue move speedily in the opposite direction, toward the trees, largely unnoticed for now.

I am at the pile of weapons with the spear. I reach down to grab it. I see a girl whirling a newly-found sword in my direction and dive out of the way of the clumsy slash. The girl takes a moment to adjust the sword grip in her hand, giving me enough time to rush back and grab the spear. I wield it perfectly as a result of my training, knowing that she has no chance. I turn toward the girl. She raises her sword to try and ward me off. Shouting an incoherent group of furious sounds, I plunge the spear deep into her abdomen. She screams in pain and shock and I rip the spear free, causing even more damage. I leave her on the ground to die or be finished off by someone else.

I allow myself to survey my kill for a few brief seconds with satisfaction, but I realize my mistake too late. I'm hit! The point of a serrated throwing knife is slowly drawing blood out of my left arm, and the wound stings horribly, making it slightly harder to focus. I pull it out with a decisive tug, gasping at the brief flash of pain it caused. I can see the district 2 girl making her way to Cato,who is currently ransacking the cornucopia with the other career tributes, armed with around a dozen knives. She's pulling out another one to throw and launches it with a merciless gleam of triumph in her eyes. Luckily though, it's not at me, but at another boy who's just managed to get to the middle ring and get his hands on a spiked mace. He's wearing the dark orange of district 6, but that quickly begins to change to red as the blade impacts in his chest.

Cato finally rushes back to the main fighting, alongside his district partner. He's wielding a formidable looking longsword; the Capitol even took time to engrave a leopard on the hilt. Basically, the sword had been made for Cato. A big burly girl from district 9 is running toward the grass field bearing a big backpack that bulges oddly, obviously full of cornucopia supplies. "No," I hear him shout. "She can't get away with that. Kill her clove!"

"Too far," I hear her call. Cato, even though he's stocky, is quick. He Sprints forward toward the girl and catches her before she's moved a dozen more paces, wrenching the backpack from her shoulders and getting her into a choke hold. She punches ineffectually at him as he pulls out his longsword and slices off each of her limbs in turn. The ground around them stains with red. Unable to take my eyes from the grizzly scene, I still manage to notice the district 4 girl and boy heading towards the cornucopia in my peripheral vision. The little runt's whooping as he gleefully grabs up a spear and hands a second to his district partner, who, without any preamble whatsoever, plunges it into his chest. Glimmer joins her a few seconds later, an unstrung bow on her shoulder. She nods approval at the district 4 girl, says something and laughs.

I notice Jill, who doesn't seem to have moved from her plate. She's just standing there, her eyes unsure of what to do. Even though I know it will make me a target, I yell, "Jill! Get moving now! The trees! Anything!"

Then I sprint off toward the field of grasses, where Thresh has disappeared. I can do nothing more. I chance a look back and see the careers and a few stragglers still battling it out near the horn, but predictably the careers are sweeping the field. Pita is with them, and I do catch a glimpse of him slitting the throat of a boy with his knife before I turn away. But now I have to run as I have never run before to put some distance between me and the danger.

About 20 minutes later, the opening cannons begin to sound. During the opening bloodbath, the tribute death cannons are delayed until it's over due to all the confusion, and because the sound of multiple cannons going off at once would be deafening. I count eleven booms. Almost half the field dead already. At least one or two districts must have lost both their tributes in that bloodbath; probably their escorts and mentors left the betting rooms when they realized there was no point in staying. Back home, 11 families would be reacting to the deaths of their children. Lives needlessly thrown away to settle a 74-year-old blood feud, Stara's words echo in my mind.

I mentally slap myself and focus back on the arena, on trying to stay alive. The grass is up to my shoulders now, forcing me to slow my pace to a power walk. Right now I am simply trying to distance myself from the cornucopia, though I am also on the lookout for water and a safe place to sleep. I catch up with Thresh about an hour later. He's wielding a large rock about the size of a loaf of bread, but that's not much use against the grass. Together we continue our futile search. The hours stretch on, marked only by the sun as it travels across the sky.

A tree! I point at the unmistakable shape looming up from within the seemingly eternal field of grass on the horizon. The field has been cleared in a 30-foot circle around the tree, providing ample room to set up camp. If we had any camping gear, that is. Of course we will have to sleep out in the open, but the grass will probably do a lot to throw off hunters. And we could probably use it to make primitive coverings for ourselves. The game makers control the weather in the arena and seem to enjoy making it overly cold, to encourage tributes to make fires. Where there's fire, there's conflict.

The sun sets, and the Capitol seal appears above me, followed by the dead tributes' faces, a final salute to their brief stretch of valor. The girl from 3, which I left to die. The boy from 4, betrayed by his own district partner. The boy from 5, both from 6 and 7, the boy from 8. The girl from 9, savaged by Cato. And finally, Jill. In a way, I'm glad she's gone. Even though she was little more than dead weight on the trip, I wanted to care about her but could not. She was too timid to make it far in the arena, so at least she made it quick. The anthem booms out grandly from hidden loudspeakers. Nightlife takes over once more as the moon begins to rise, washing everything in pale light. Thresh and I take some fallen grasses near the edge of the cleared section and shape them into rough pillows for our heads. The last thing I think before drifting off is that I'm glad I don't snore.


	12. Chapter 12

The boom of a cannon jolts me into wakefulness. I quickly look beside me to make sure Thresh is there. He is, and I release a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The first rays of sun have just appeared, bathing the grass in a pale dawn light. I strain my ears to listen for any sounds out of place, but hear nothing.

I realize that is the problem. There is nothing here other than the grass and the tree. There are no birds, no animals, and most importantly, no water sources. We need to find water, and fast. I nudge Thresh gently as he's slept through the cannon, and he comes to with a jolt, eyes searching for danger. "No," I say calmly. "Only me. But we need to find water."

We stretch to get the stiffness out of our limbs, grab our weapons and continue hiking. I'm really annoyed when, after an hour, I have to stop to relieve myself, watching my body dispose of more of its precious water. My desperation to find it begins to grow and I have to resist the urge to exert my body to move faster. I know that I will become dehydrated at an even quicker rate than I am already. The grass continues as far as the eye can see, so numerous and close together that it seems homogenous. I've oriented myself so that the sun is moving backwards relative to us, so that we are heading east. I know that the cornucopia is far behind me now, and the fields are on its other side.

A few hours later, still doggedly moving forward, the distant, low echo of growls begin to sound. I can see the grass far in front of me beginning to churn with movement, and the occasional flash of white amidst the static green tableau that is the grass field. Thresh has seen it too. He grips his rock more tightly in preparation to fight whatever is nearby.

It's moving closer. A howl rips through the silence, still far off but closer than the growl, and I involuntarily take a step back. Thresh barks something at me and I rejoin him, my spear in the ready position. My eyes dart from side to side, my ears prick up and my nose probes the air. The animal instincts of Old Boone as he's on the hunt fill my body. We are one now. I have never felt so alert before, not even as I watched the bloodbath yesterday. I feel myself bearing my teeth in preparation for the battle, and I tighten my grip on the spear. My breathing begins to speed up, but I feel Old Boone's calming presence next to me, and I try to emulate the calm, certain breaths issuing from him. We breathe as one now.

The distant sound of rustling grass, augmented by bloodcurdling howls, disrupts the anticipatory silence. I glance at Thresh to make sure he's still there, forgetting that if he had ran away I would have heard it. I don't want to be alone and lost in the arena. Old Boone comforts me, and the three of us continue to watch for the first sighting of our enemies.

Mutts! The capital often engineers monstrous creatures called muttations, or mutts, to add extra excitement and amusement to the games, or to force tributes towards each other or away from the edge of the arena. Perhaps if a tribute runs far enough, he can leave. I've never really given it much thought. These mutts take the form of some kind of foxes, but they've obviously been enlarged to four or five times their normal size.

One of the creatures rises into the air above the height of the grass and leaps impossibly far. The glossy white hide disappears below the grass, but I see it flash whenever the sunlight hits it. More of them are heading toward us with impossibly powerful leaps similar to the first. I wish there was a tree so that my back would be protected, but there is not. I've counted at least four of them when the front-runner reaches us and my instincts take over.

Thresh charges forward to engage the first fox, grunting with exertion as he lifts the massive rock above his head. As he brings it down the mutt dodges to the right, toward my spear, which I've leveled at it. With a sickeningly satisfying crunching feeling, the spear sinks into its chest, right where I aimed. Thresh, off balance, recovers just in time to meet the charge of the second one, crushing its skull as it whips its neck forward to bite him. With an ear-splitting shriek of pain the creature falls at his feet. I've just extricated my spear from the body of the foe I've defeated when I'm driven back by the impact of the third fox crashing into me in mid-leap. Desperately trying to regain my breath, I lay immobile for a moment before the fox presses its advantage and lays on my chest, cutting off my air. I try to move my right arm out from under it so that I can use my spear, but I'm rapidly losing energy and my efforts are for naught.

Thresh rushes back to protect my right flank. He throws his rock at the final fox, hitting it in the side and knocking it off balance for a few seconds, then lifts the fox that is currently attacking me and beats it mercilessly with his fist. Gore and flesh mingle in a sickening mixture as he crushes the life out of it and then throws the now-deformed body aside. He's panting and out of breath, as am I from falling, and neither of us are fast enough to stop the final fox, who has recovered in time to charge at Thresh, biting his hand. He grunts in pain as I drive my spear deep into the fox's mouth and puncture upward. It falls limply to the ground to join its companions.

Bedraggled, we stay where we are for half an hour or so. With difficulty I rip some of the nearby grasses to create a makeshift bandage for Thresh's wound, which is steadily bleeding. As I attempt to apply it, he flinches back involuntarily, but I try again and he manages to stay still long enough for me to clumsily put it on. He looks at me gratefully and nods. The bleeding stops after a few minutes.

"Are you able to travel," I ask thresh. He nods, and we gather our bloodied weapons and set off southward. I don't want to encounter any more fox mutts, which seem to have come from the east, the direction we'd been moving before. The hours stretch on and blur into a continuous monotony of walking. In the late afternoon I have to relieve myself again, and with a feeling of dread, notice that my urine is browning. The energy I expended during the fight with the foxes has come back to haunt me now and my parched throat makes itself known with greater urgency.

"You okay, Thresh," I ask him, mostly just to make conversation.

"No water," he says back. We both know it's true. Desperately I search for a water source but find none. I begin mentally slapping myself for not staying longer at the cornucopia and vying for the supplies. I'm sure that the careers are drinking water to their hearts' content from the lake now. I hope that the lake isn't the sole water source in the arena. My rational thought reminds me that the games usually last around two weeks, and forcing everyone to congregate at the lake for water would finish them in a matter of a few days.

I do have another option: I could ask my mentors for water. Jewel told me that I had sponsors. But doing that would be tantamount to telling Tyson that my strategy failed. I'm not quite desperate to do that yet. Imagining the hidden smirk and cutting remarks that Tyson would say if I had to tell him he was right pushes me onward. Thresh follows doggedly behind, but he has slowed down somewhat from yesterday's fast lope. By the time the sun begins to descend in the west, I have to stop due to fatigue. I sink down in the grass and try to catch my breath.

Another hour and a half of slow walking and there's nothing. I hate to do it, but I know that the alternative is death. "Need some water here," I say into thin air, trying to sound jovial, as if the situation isn't about self-preservation. I blanch inwardly at the sound of my voice; it's scratchy, little more than a weak croak, as if I haven't talked in several years. We continue to wend our way haphazardly through the grasses for a few minutes before I catch the glint of a hovercraft near me. Somehow I know that, even though he was sarcastic with me, Tyson would do his best to keep me alive. I eagerly catch the parachute that the hovercraft drops, and the craft quickly disappears. The parachute is tiny; I wonder just how much water he was able to secure for us. I open it, expecting to find a small water bottle or something. To my shock and anger, I find a small bottle labeled with the word "Iodine".

It must be some sick joke or something. Iodine? I need water. I raise my face to the sky, my mouth opening to scream some curses at Tyson, when I remember something I've read about in a wilderness survival book. Iodine ... it purifies water. If he decided to give me a gift of iodine when I asked for water, it could only mean one thing: I need iodine more than I need water. It follows that there is water nearby. Reinvigorated by hope, I press onward.

I sight the edge of the vast field of grass 20 minutes later. I'm so weak that, in good condition, I could have made the trip in 5, but it gives me satisfaction nonetheless. The anthem plays as we burst out of the grass on to level ground, and I sigh in relief, brushing the last bits of grass off on to the earth. The picture of the girl from District 8 lights up the sky for a few seconds, then disappears. Idly I wonder how she managed to survive past the bloodbath as she seemed rather dim-witted at the interviews, the reapings and in training, but I don't dwell on it for long because I notice my salvation in a narrow depression in the earth a few hundred yards away. It's water!

There are trees nearby as well which have large leaves that are ideal for holding the water. I mentally thank Tyson for the iodine and put a few drops of it into the water we've gathered. The next few minutes of waiting are the worst, but I get through them, and after a while we drink. It is a heavenly feeling, one that only a person with great thirst knows. Water is, in that moment, the most delicious thing I've ever tasted.

After quenching my thirst, I go back to the trees to make a better bandage for Thresh's wound. It's already begun to scab over, but better safe than sorry. Carefully I remove the discolored bandage from his hand and bind a new poultice of leaves to the limb with some fallen grasses.

"Want to risk a fire," I ask him. "I don't think that there's many people around. And if there are, we're both in pretty good condition to take them on."

"how," he asks.

"Get some of that grass ready. We need lots of fuel."

I strike the rock that Thresh normally wields with my spear for a few seconds. Finally, I notice a small spark. I begin to exhale slowly on the spark until it expands into a small flame and grab some of the kindling Thresh has gotten, adding it slowly to the fire, hoping that I don't accidentally smother it. After a while the pleasant sound of crackling wood soothes my ears, and I stop adding fuel. I tell Thresh that I'll wake him up for the second watch in four hours, and he promptly falls asleep.

I stare out at the unexplored land in front of us. It's another field, full of plants that look like wheat, in neat rows. I realize that the presence of the field was no accident of the game makers; Thresh, coming from district 11, probably knows all about the best ways to harvest wheat and turn it into something edible. I hear the distant sound of nocturnal animals; I may be able to kill some with my spear to add some meat to our diet. The knowledge that food is available reassures me. Maybe I actually have a chance.

Though I attempt to remain alert, the events of the day begin to take their toll. I've experienced the full range of emotions, from the resignation of dying due to dehydration to the fear of death from a fox mutt. My eyes become heavier and heavier until they close entirely. My head begins to loll to the left toward a nearby tree that is just inviting me to fall asleep against it. Annoyed, I jerk my body back to the right and force my eyes open. There's still at least an hour left before I can wake Thresh. I attempt to keep myself alert by counting the wheat plants but realize quickly that the rows all have the same number of plants in them, which means I can just count the rows and multiply. There appear to be 322 plants. 322 plants. Why not 321 plants? That would sound more interesting. Like a countdown. Down. Lay down. ...

I sense a presence beside me. Groggily I wonder how I missed it; I was supposed to be on sentry duty, right? Then I realize that I was caught napping. My head is resting comfortably against the tree, and my eyes fly open to reveal a serrated steel knife pointed right at them.


	13. Chapter 13

AN: Sorry for the long time between updates. Writer's block.

"That was foolish," Stara says, sheathing the knife. "I could have been a career."

Morning has broken a long time ago; I realized I must have been asleep for 9 hours or more. I feel a stab of guilt for letting Thresh down. He is sitting on the ground, glaring off into the distance, but I know that it's directed at me. "Uh," I answer lamely, because she is, of course, right. "I was really tired and recovering from dehydration."

"Well there's no point talking about it anymore. I've been looking for you since the bloodbath. I thought you'd go toward the area with trees; that's where Rue and Katniss went. The careers have a base at the cornucopia with all their supplies. And Katniss's lover is with them. I managed to sneak into the career camp and take a bit of food last night. It's not a lot but it's something and we need to live somehow."

She opens up a small backpack to reveal a few strips of beef, some broken pieces of cracker and a half loaf of bread. The backpack also has three medium-sized water bottles, which will be invaluable if we plan to travel. "Not much," she says, "but I couldn't risk more. The girl from 2 was on guard and she's sharp as a hawk. It looks like they rotate guards, one each night."

Hungrily I rip into the small ration. It's the first thing I've eaten since the games began, and now that my thirst has been quenched, my hunger makes itself felt anew. We gather some water and purify it for Stara, who gulps it down thirstily. "We only found that water late last night," I say. "We walked the whole day to get to it."

"Who found you," Star asks after she finishes the water. "She points to the bandage.

"Group of fox mutts," I say carelessly. "Easy kills."

"Yeah, and that bandage is only for show."

"Ok, not easy kills then. How far are we from the career camp? We've been wandering around willy-nilly for a day and a half and I've kind of lost my bearings a bit. That field of grasses seemed to go on forever."

"Well it took me 4 or 5 hours to walk from the career camp to here," she says. "You might want to hide better. I think Katniss is sleeping high in a tree every night now. That's smarter than snoozing on the ground. The careers could just stomp all over you."

"It's hard to climb with my limp," I say. I try to keep my face blank, but it's difficult to hide my sadness as I think about losing Old Boone all over again. Stara seems to notice my wavering composure; she quickly changes the subject and smiles apologetically at me.

"So, what now," she asks. "Is there any reason to stay here? I know we have easy access to water, but this stream seems to follow the path to the wheat field also."

"We probably should move," I say. "There's no food and it's way too dangerous and time-consuming for you to trek over to the career camp to steal some. There has to be other stuff around. I know we're at least close to animals. We could hunt them or something."

The other two nod and we all stand, arming ourselves and stretching the aches out of our limbs. The sun has not reached its zenith but is still powerful enough to be uncomfortably hot. It's a good thing that I found water yesterday. It will probably get much worse as the day goes on.

Food is much harder to get than I had predicted. I see a small rabbit browsing on the local plant life near me and charge at it with my spear. With a dainty leap, it dodges out of the way and scurries off. That was not the first time today either. Annoyed, I stab my spear into the ground, dirtying the shaft as I extract it. Now I'll have to clean it as well. The others walk stolidly along beside me, their faces set in hard lines. They probably just shrugged it off as routine, while the anger at the futility of hunting boils inside me. I can just barely resist hitting Thresh so that I can fight with him to blow off some steam. He'd probably kill me anyway.

We reach the wheat field late in the afternoon and drop our equipment at its edge in the shade of a few slender aspens. They will provide precious little respite from the sun, but it's still a welcome relief after the grueling heat. We're also running low on water, but the stream isn't too far away so we should be fine on that account, as long as we don't have to move. Stara goes off to try hunting some of the local animals. I doubt she'll be successful, but I keep that thought to myself. Then again she's faster than me. Thresh goes toward the wheat field to see if the wheat is able to be harvested. Having nothing better to do, I stay to guard our meager supplies.

Stara comes back to the sparse camp, empty-handed as I expected. "Well at least I've set up some basic snares," she says. "I tried to catch a few rabbits but they're more alert than I realized. They can hear my heart beating, I'm sure of it. Even when I stood perfectly still they heard me and dodged my throwing knives. But maybe the snares will work. I hope they do. Anything interesting happen here?"

"Nope," I say dismissively. "Nothing at all. Maybe we missed the cannons. we might as well be alone here."

"Good one," she says, slapping my arm. "Where'd you learn to make people laugh? I don't think it was the cows."

"Nah, it was Hefra," I say.

"My mother," I explain as she glances questioningly at me. "She was always hating on the cows I loved the most and saying that they were only good for slaughtering to make fresh beef. And whenever something wrong happened, it was my fault. She drops some dishes while cooking? Maybe if I hadn't been there she could have concentrated better because I was agitating the animals, that were far away in the barn, I might add. An old trough is eaten by termites? I must have enticed them there. Because I have always just been an excuse for her and Garbull, my father, to spend even more money than they have to. To hear her talk about it we were dirt poor, worse off than the homeless."

"That's despicable," Stara says. She moves her hand tentatively toward my back. Then after a bit of hesitation, she pats it awkwardly. "I' really sorry for making you relive that."

"I do it every day," I say with a shrug. It's weird, but I enjoy the warm feeling of her hand upon my back. In companionable silence, we sit together. I hope that Thresh has had some success in harvesting.

 _Thump!_ A bulky bundle of harvested wheat crashes into us from above. We are forced to separate by the wheat bundle, which Thresh quickly picks up and begins to unravel. "New friend, Dal," he says. He keeps his face hard, but I can hear the smile that he is concealing for the cameras.

"I suppose so," I say, smiling in spite of myself. Stara just turns away from us. That red mane of hair is strikingly beautiful in the fading light of the sun. As Thresh begins to prepare some bread, using the fire starting technique I showed him last night, I can't take my eyes off of Stara's hair. As the sun traverses the sky, moving slowly westward, the hue of her hair continuously changes. I have never seen anything like it, except perhaps when I first saw carefree wildlife, and the last of Old Boone in the flesh.

I bet the cameras are trained on me. I realize I've probably been staring at Stara for a full fifteen minutes or more without stopping. Thresh is baking our meal, seemingly oblivious to everything, though I know that he knows. As I breathe in the fresh air, I recognize the smell of fresh bread for the first time. It's just beginning to rise under Thresh's expert watch, and it looks filling, unlike our meager teseree rations from District 10.

"What a weird subversion of gender roles," I say to Stara with a slight grin. "You go out hunting and Thresh is cooking. Who would've thought it?"

Thresh grabs a stone and lobs it at me playfully. "You bad," he says, turning back to the bread. As his face turns away I catch a quick flash of his eye, so fleeting that I wonder if it was real. I know it was real though; that look doesn't happen by accident. After another ten minutes of agonizing waiting, the smell tantalizingly close, he deems it ready. I've never tasted bread so soft yet filling in my life.

"Not as good as I could have done," Thresh says after taking an experimental bite. "Wish I had some yeast or something."

"You kidding? I've never had bread this good," I say.

"Yeah," Stara agrees. "I almost never had freshly baked food. I rarely had fresh food period. It was all from the garbage cans, or stale. This is excellent!"

All too quickly, the bread is gone. "Gotta make the wheat last," Thresh says, "In case we don't get a chance to harvest more. You got enough in you to last a full day and no more. In 11 you get strict rations. You take more, you get whipped. Every Sunday's whipping day. Usually get a day off work on Sunday but we all have to watch the whippings. I'd almost rather be working sometimes, it lasts so long. And of course no one can leave."

It's the most I've ever heard Thresh say at once. His voice is strong, but clipped, as are his sentences, and yet I realize that under his hard exterior, he is shrewd, shrewder than I have given him credit. I quickly leave to get water, self-conscious about underestimating my allies. I realize just how sheltered my life was compared to both Thresh's and Stara's. I'm lucky, too, that they are my allies. Having them working together against me would be a nightmare.

As Stara predicted, the stream is not too far away from the field of wheat. After filling the water bottles and purifying each of them with iodine, I return to the campfire. The Capitol seal appears in the sky over our heads and the anthem plays. No faces appear in the sky today. I hope the viewers found the interplay between Stara and me interesting enough. If they didn't, the game makers will probably create some action instead. A dull Hunger Games would undermine their effectiveness, after all.

Thresh takes the first watch, as he is the most well-rested. Stara and I, weapons close at hand, lie down near the campfire, and I make sure that I am several feet away from her. The flames are slowly dwindling to smoking embers as my eyes close. The drawn-out hoot of a barn owl echoes from far in the distance, and pale moonlight illuminates the three figures by the campfire, vigilant, yet at peace.

"Get up! Get up right now," Thresh's harsh shout snaps me out of a dream where Old Boone is telling me about a new animal, a groosling, which he had just managed to kill while it was roosting. Apparently the meat was just tough enough that he could crunch it, and he really liked to crunch food. I jolt upright, my hand fumbling for my spear. I smell charred wood all around and watch the forest fire devouring trees, grass, the wheat field, everything. Stara is nowhere to be seen.


	14. Chapter 14

Fire is everywhere, a wall that extends as far as the eye can see. The snapping sound of trees being consumed by the uncaring blaze mingles with the skittering of small feet as rabbits, deer and other animals try to outrun the flames. I can smell the unpleasant aroma singeing fur and burning wood. I can see Thresh reaching for his rock. I quickly grab my spear and the bag of bread rations and struggle to my feet, wishing I had time to stretch the ache out of my legs. But there's no time to waste. We run away from the flames as fast as we can. Is it me, or are they moving faster? With the power of fear spurring me on, I put on an extra burst of speed, gaining a few precious seconds. I know that the game makers are using the fire to lure me toward some other tributes, most likely the careers.

I hear a hiss in front of me and dive to the side as a fireball pulverizes the ground where I was about to step on. There's just a charred crater, about a meter in diameter, where the fireball hit. Another ball of fiery death barely misses Thresh; the front of his jacket burns and he has to waste precious energy beating out the flames. We run in a diagonal now, zigzagging randomly as we try to stay unburnt. I can feel my limbs beginning to tire but adrenaline keeps me moving. I wonder where Stara is. I hope she's okay. Then I have to remind myself that she has to die for me to win. My momentary lapse in concentration in thinking about her is a big mistake, as I just narrowly avoid being incinerated. Instead, the bread rations that I am holding are engulfed. I make a split second decision, surrendering the precious food to the fire, running for my life from the wall of fire that is still, somehow, moving in my direction. I think that it's beginning to slow down. Maybe this hell will be over soon.

After an unknown amount of time, I can tell that the fireballs are beginning to subside. I lean my back against one of the few unburnt trees in the area, my limbs racked by cramps. I take huge shuddering breaths of fresh air, sweat pouring down in rivulets. Thresh is doing the same. After a while we're able to breathe normally again. Dawn is breaking. The sound of snapping wood and roaring flames slowly fades out as the fire fizzles and is replaced by the songs of carefree birds. I realize that I am very lucky to not have any injuries. Thresh seems to be unhurt as well.

Then my rational thought begins to reassert itself. _Why did the fireballs stop? Because there was no need to continue to launch them. Because I am fairly close to another tribute._ I quickly reach for my spear, which lies on the ground. I don't remember dropping it, but I must have. The grip is comforting. My eyes move from side to side, searching for the slightest movement.

There he is, about 30 yards from me, a tan-skinned boy clutching a small box to his chest as if it is the most valuable thing he has. He's leaning against a tree, face contorted in pain. Part of the right side of his jacket is burned and an angry red patch mars the otherwise emaculate tan of his right forearm. He must be the boy from district 3. I wonder what's inside the box as he twists it in his left hand while trying to keep hsi right arm as still as possible to minimize the pain. How has he evaded detection from the careers for so long?

"You ok," I hear Stara's voice near me and snap my head around. While I've been watching the district 3 boy, she apparently made it back. I try to feel disappointed that she didn't get consumed.

"Yeah, we lost all the bread though and I think the wheat field is gone too," I say. "It's like the game makers are forcing us to try and steal food from the careers to survive, or try and ally with 12 so that she can hunt it for us. It's not fair." I sigh in annoyance.

"Better check all the wheat is really gone," Thresh advises. He is recuperating well from the exertions of the morning, relatively mobile as his cramps are fading. We will soon be able to get up. "And who is that kid over there?"

"Male from 3," I say. "What's that box he has?"

"And why is he hugging it," Thresh asks.

"And why are you asking all these questions of people who don't know the answers? You could ask him, you know. He looks unarmed to me. And even if he had some small weapon you could probably crush him with that rock before he even got a chance to use it."

The idea seems safe enough. Warily we approach the boy, who does not stop messing with his mystery box as we near him. He shrinks back in fear as we come within striking distance, curiosity warring with a growing sense of forboding clear in his wary eyes. I can't blame him for feeling that way; he's outnumbered three to one, seemingly unarmed and thus an easy kill. As Thresh begins to follow the retreating boy, I gesture a halt.

"Hey kiddo," I say, putting on an endearing smile, the one I use as I try to calm agitated cattle. "What are you doing with that box thing?"

"That's Oled Volta to you," he says, attempting an arrogant tone. The quaver in his voice betrays his fear though, making him sound more like a desperate, injured animal. "I have important things to do and you're distracting me so go away!"

"You know if we wanted to kill you, we would have. But our quarrel lies with the careers right now. And maybe you could help us take them down. And I repeat, what's that box thing?"

"The mine control box," he says. I stare at him uncomprehendingly. "The what?"

"It controls the mines under the plates near the cornucopia, the ones that blow you up if you try to leave before the minute is up. I found it among the weapons piles in the outer ring. They must have a remote way to control the mines of course, but in my private training session I showed off my advanced knowledge of electricity and magnetism and, well, I was one of the first private sessions so there were at least a few of them paying attension I suppose."

"Hmm, what did you plan to actually do with that though," I ask. It's the obvious question. "I mean you can reactivate the mines. I guess that's cool. It'll definitely provide a few hours of entertainment as you set it all up. I still don't see the point."

"Well I was thinking maybe I could sneak into the career camp at night and reactivate some of the mines near where the careers were sleeping so they'd wake up to a pleasant boom if one of them accidentally rolled over,." Oled says, still nursing his arm.

"Well that would get rid of one career, maybe two if they activated two mines simultaneously," says Stara, her brow furrowed in thought. She looks so cute. Belatedly I remember that, to win, she has to die. I can't think about what she looks like. I force my uncooperative head to jerk away.

"That would give us a better chance though. And it would strike a blow to the careers' morale."

"No," Stara says slowly. "No... We need to permanently cripple all of them. Not just kill a few."

The plan seems so obvious after she has said it. Blow the supplies up. We just have to hope that the careers are smart enough to realize that someone has been stealing their supplies, and that the supplies need better protection than a single sleepy sentry. Oled departs in the direction of the lake, which is visible as a blue ripple on the horizon. Thresh and Stara follow me as I trek back to the field.

Or, what is left of it, which is almost nothing. A few charred stalks of wheat lay limply on the ground, like the bodies of the dead at the opening bloodbath. We walk through the scorched earth, trying to get to the edge of the fire's area of effect. The fire leveled everything in a radius of 4 or 5 miles. I wonder how much money was lost just from this fire. Finally we reach the unburnt area. There is some wheat here, but not a lot; Thresh will probably have to be very careful about planting and water it to make sure that the supply is not exhausted. I mentally sigh in relief when I realize that a water source is nearby as well. THis camp will do as well as any, and with Oled adding some intrigue to the careers' prospects, they should leave us alone at least for a day or two.

The humid late-afternoon air weighs heavily on me. I keep drinking from my water bottle until it's gone, so I have to haul myself up to refill it. The water is warm, but better than nothing. I drink it mechanically. Now that I am safe, I am bored. I lean against a tree and close my eyes, trying to ignore the heat that continues to assail me.

But I realize that this heat is not actually so bad. I've been subjected to worse, especially when I exercised the cows during the dog days of summer, the hottest days of the year. Several other ranchers were put in the hospital for heatstroke; I had heard legends about a stubborn man who continued to work his body far beyond its limits and died due to heat exhaustion. The cows understand me though; if I let them know I was getting too hot, they would slow down some or head for the water so that I could refresh myself. It was one of the perks of understanding them, I suppose. Now there is no such respite. There is no airy barn in which to shelter. And my cows are far away.

Thresh trudges off toward the meager wheat and begins to dig with his hands to create furrows to plant it. Grateful for something to do, I ask him if I can help him in any way. I kneel down and begin to pour water into the holes. It's boring, but less so than sitting there doing nothing. Thresh says that he'll be able to harvest wheat in two or three days. I hope I can hold out that long.

The anthem booms out as the evening wanes to night. With the retreat of the sun, the air cools rapidly. The breeze, which was so pleasing as it caressed my face, becomes an ever-present annoyance, each gust of chill air more impudent than the last. Supremely uncomfortable, I lay down to sleep as Stara's ever-watchful eyes scan the area. There was nothing to eat but some roots that Stara remembered from her edible plants training. The bitter taste lingers in my mouth even though I have tried to wash it away with water. I think enviously about Old Boone, freely cropping grass and killing small animals without a care in the world. But there's nothing to do about that now. At least my sleep is dreamless.


	15. Chapter 15

Thresh shakes me awake for the second watch. I painstakingly climb to a sitting position, groggily wishing he would go away. Of course he won't though. His eyes have bags under them and he is already shuffling his limbs into the most comfortable position. I crawl to the sentry point, a slightly elevated boulder that one can perch atop for a better view of the area. My eyes alertly sweep the surroundings, but, as usual, I see nothing.

I quickly become fed up of looking for things that will probably not show up. Plus, my eyes are getting tired. I relax my body and focus my eyes on a random point far in the distance, hoping that my peripheral vision will detect movement. That is foolish, of course, but I am too tired to fight my baser instincts. My mind begins to wander, to the books I have read in the past. I have always been an opponent of the hunger games, yet I respected the potency of the principle to which the Capitol adhered so successfully. By anually reminding the districts that they are still in the wrong, the Capitol leadership created a divide between the district citizens and the normal Capitol citizens, both of whom they bled dry. Among its many other purposes, the games are a way to reinforce the idea that the Districts are an ideal scapegoat for problems in the Capitol. The power of division goes even further, as outsider districts also resent the extra training that the Capitol allows in the career districts. This extra resentment deflects the anger away from the Capitol and toward the career districts, which is great for those in power.

It does not help that the Hunger Games often portrays the district people at their worst. That is why Stara's goal to play the games with dignity has such appeal to me, as a person who has seen the same motifs during all the hunger games since I can remember. Now is as good a year to make a splash as any.

BOOM. The sound of the cannon jolts me back to alertness. Another tribute is dead. I wonder who it was. If I were to guess, the career pack hunted someone down. Though the wheat field keeps me safe, it also effectively obscures what the other tributes are doing. Of course Stara sometimes gathers intelligence, but it's disjointed, meaning we have to infer to fill in the gaps.

Thresh blinks and opens one eye. I tell him to go back to sleep. Stara, realizing there is no danger, settles back also. I wish I could do the same. Instead I force myself to divide the surrounding area into narrow sectors and scan each one slowly. I know I won't find anything in any of them though, which causes me to lose my focus and have to readjust my eyes frequently as they tend to wander around looking for anything to break the monotony. I hate night sentry duty. I really do.

My shoulders sag lower and lower as the moon traverses its way through the night. I manage to fight the torpour for a few minutes, but I quickly succumb to it, my eyes closing involuntarily. They fly open again as my body jerks into wakefulness. My innermost mind reasserts control over my body and wakes it back up, a sixth sense alerting it of possible danger. Perhaps I smelled something? My head rotates as I sniff the air, but all I smell is the ashes of the fire we had lit yesterday. Then I hear a sound I would hope to never hear again, the shrill barking of a fox mutt. Answering barks follow shortly after.

But the barking was distant; maybe they are hunting someone else. It's a feeble hope, but I decide not to disturb the others for just a couple more minutes. I know they'd be annoyed if it were a false alarm and I want to avoid that if possible. Unfortunately for us, it is not.

"Wake up," I shout, tugging on Thresh's arm. I've learned that this wakes him up a lot more effectively than trying to roll him or poke him. Unfortunately, it also activates a jerk reflex, which I now know to avoid. He grabs his rock with a tight grip and shoves it down where my hand had been before I withdrew it. He had only barely managed to stop himself in time two days ago. "More of those fox mutts. And it sounds like a lot of them."

I glance at Stara, who's eyes are already open. As another round of bark and response echoes back at us, she asks, "Is that bad?"

"Yeah," I say. "I thought I told you that already. They wounded Thresh. And he's the best fighter in the arena." I notice Thresh flushing slightly, but it's true. He's stronger than Kato and was blessed with endurance and determination, neither of which Kato has. Even though Kato is trained and has better weaponry thanks to his career status, Thresh can easily overpower him. I could easily see the games ending in a showdown between Kato and Thresh, and Thresh would surely come out as the victor in that situation unless he were severely disadvantaged.

The echo of the barking crescendos into the actual thing. As soon as she's gathered up her materials, Stara sprints off, her red hair disappears quickly as Thresh and I belatedly run after her in pursuit. We're going back the way we came two days ago, the scorched wasteland of charred stumps and the cold aroma of ash thick in the air. Eager howls urge us farther from our camp. It's strikingly similar to the way I herded cattle, but unfortunately the foxes are equipped with far more potent implements than cattle prods. We pass a dried up streambed. Thresh is several yards ahead, running steadily onward, arms swinging athletically in rhythm with his powerful legs as they carry him forward. He's not sprinting, I notice, but instead running just hard enough to not shorten the gap between us and the mutts. I pound up alongside him, my chest already heaving from exertion. Together we run for our lives.

The charred area stretches on and on, until I notice some trees a few hundred yards away. They're scrubby, but they still have enough branches for me to climb to hopefully avoid the stampede behind me. Thresh has noticed them too. With renewed vigor we burst into the welcome shade of the trees. My breath is gasping in and out from my lungs and my legs ache from running that far, butdesperation gives me enough adrenaline to continue. I put my hands on the trunk. I boost myself up with my legs, which burn in protest. I grab a sturdy-looking branch with one hand and pull myself up with the arm. Step up with my feet, grip the trunk with my hands, grasp a higher branch, hoist myself up. I slowly establish my climbing rhythm and have ascended twenty feet by the time the mutts arrive. I know that mutts can jump extremely high, but itlooks like twenty feet is high enough. I don't know what happened to Thresh, but I don't hear him screaming, so I suppose he made it all right. I let my breathing slow down to a trot.

The Mutts, unsuccessful in their attempts to jump or climb the tree, eventually get bored and move away in ignominious distraction. Slowly I climb down the tree, releasing a pent-up puff of air I did not realize I had. My shirt is caked with sweat, at least the parts that are still intact after the fire and the first mutt attack. We lost our meager supplies, but we're alive at least, which is all I could really ask for. I mentally berate myself for falling asleep on sentry duty. Had I not woken when I did, Thresh and I would probably have been fresh fox feed.

Where to sleep? It's still early in the morning, and I notice a cool breeze caressing my body asI search around for some natural cover. I finally settle in the middle of a small group of alders. Spear close at hand, I doze. I'm glad I didn't leave it behind. Being weaponless is bad, very bad.

Being caught off guard is bad, too. It's the second time she's done it, and it probably won't be the last. Stara sits silently beside me, holding my water bottle, which she's filled. At least she isn't leveling a blade at my neck.

"Did you purify that," I ask her. She just gives me a withering look. I take the bottle gratefully and sip from it. She sits there, waiting for me to finish drinking. I do so steadily, despite the powerful urge to gulp it all down at once. When it is depleted, she moves in front of me so that our eyes meet. They draw in mine, and I imagine that perhaps black holes work in a similar way.

My surroundings seem to shrivel, and the intensity of her eyes is overpowering, and I want to break free but cannot. And it is as if my entire body is being pulled into the black hole. The smell of the nearby vegetation slowly expels from my nostrils. The air in front of me begins to constrict as she moves closer. With a desperate jerk I wrench my eyes away, looking down, trying to escape, but I only see her. That is her nose, and I see the flash of red from her hair in my peripheral vision as the sunlight reflects off it, and her teeth, slightly disaligned but all there. Her lips are set to display them clearly, and they are set in an expression eerily reminiscent of the fox mutts. Her nose is inches away from mine now. Her hands grip my face, and they are soft. Now I am leaning forward, and now I smell her breath and feel her hands slipping slightly along my face, and I instinctively give a deep sigh. I try to fight the feeling of pleasure as our lips meet, but cannot, because it is unlike anything I have felt before, not even when I was with Old Boone. Her arms are now behind my back, and she has parted her legs, and her hands are fiddling with her pants, but it's just too much at once. I know I want it but at the same time I know I don't. I take her sweaty hands and I notice my own palms are not much better off, just as she is about to pull her pants down, and then she slowly disengages her lips from mine and turns away. I see the back of her head, the red hair as vibrant as ever, as it nods once, and she walks away.

I notice Thresh, a silent spectator to everything, studying a long stick of firewood intensely. I leave him to it. I sit down, away from both of them, wondering about what I could have done better, and how she smelled, and how her hands felt on my face, and the great unknown that was inside the jumpsuit, and those wiry legs that could open and close, like a pair of sleek scissors. And as I thought, the anthem played, showing the faces of the district 1 and district 4 girls, who were killed in some way that I don't care about. Because today Stara kissed me, and I know that one of us has to die, and it's just too much to think about for today. I rest my head against the tree and try to get comfortable. I don't want to sit watch tonight. I don't want to see Thresh or Stara either. I don't want to feel them shake me awake, and I don't want to hear the howl of a fox mutt. I simply want to be alone, and relive the kiss over and over and over and over, and condense my reality, the story of my life, to that kiss. I tell Old Boone about it all, and he gives me a wistful thought in the affirmative, and goes back to cropping the grass.


End file.
